The Moon, by Your Side
 
On the night your father first lifted you, his palms lined with an alphabet

of unreadable script, he pressed destiny into your skin, bare and pale as the moon.

 
You see, your father loved the woman who gave her life to give you life. What now

of the secrets they swore with tenderness, under a wooing moon?

 
He formed clay into goddesses and gods to give form to his prayers, to make good

what he’d done. And in his bed with his bride, he lay sleepless as the unblinking moon.

 
Each day your limbs lengthened and your flesh was made full, the tides shushed and pulled

at your mother’s ghost, until her memory was drowned in the depths beneath the sinking moon.

 
But she wouldn’t be eclipsed by his silence and time; she rose in your round face,

and lit your eyes—and your father turned away like a reluctant moon.

 
Unexpected, your laugh was psalm as you walked, motherless in dust, as if you, Sarah,

knew all the while, you were loved; if only, by the constant moon.