I am curious about the moon’s childhood
she is a brilliance, she has matured over her scars.
But the burned side of her body must include her tongue
because we have been ascribing her, assaying her, admonishing her.
Putting words into her gray mouth, pulling sacredness out
I said to myself, here is a kindred
my most center direction of the cardinals.
Instead of milk, I fed my daughter handfuls of the crescent
reflected in the still pools to calm her fever.
she said<<
there are butterflies slicing their machetes
under my skin>>
and I could not get that image gone
not even when the Moon had taken her
left her body for the Sun to find.
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