Moonchild
We have our routine.
Every night I collect her from her boyfriend’s after dark,
although this night, on the first of August, the moon is larger,
brighter
than I have ever seen it.
It follows us along the fences, a little behind the trees, tracks us,
touchable,
rolls after us along the horizon at the speed of my car.
It is her that it wants.
I can see it in the way the moon catches her face, is absorbed,
defeated by her beauty
gives in to her, worships.
She has moved beyond us, her mother and I, our average, bland
attempts at symmetry,
attraction.
She is something bigger, more complete.
The moon knows this, she does not.
I must think, find a way to tell her what she has become, help her
to believe it.
