I do not know how to narrate childhood: I was a small secret once tethered to a rocking womb, prone to motion sickness.
Slowly, silently, now the moon gives permission. The phlox will bloom And dreams, sticky sweet, will pink the morning. *April is National Poetry month. If you want, join me and lots of other writers as we attempt to write a poem a day. Here’s a link to prompts you can use or ignore: http://www.napowrimo.net
Mourning I went out into the mud and rain to watch stalled horses, nervous and full of heat, neigh and kick at thunder until the storm passed, and the ghost was given.
Sometimes I pretend there was moonlight, ample. That your body was lit bright. That my eyes closed with no other choice. On other nights, I remember that it was dark. That there were no streetlights. That the stars, smothered by the clouds, could not see us, and all we had was touch.
Watch the fireflies extinguish two days after you trapped them. Catalog ephemera and translate before it wilts.
It was January, but not cold enough for coats. My shoulders were bare, I think; or, maybe they weren’t. But, the wind, I know the wind was blowing because I remember it stopping, as if in deference to us both.
The moon, in distress, followed close, and the moths tried to pass for their cousins but failed. I wanted to tell you, “Look up,” but the light was too much. You could not see that the constellations had moved, that the lion had wandered off, that the virgin had taken a lover, that the entire …