Moon ghazal
I can’t remember the first time I saw it, seems it was always there, even with me in the womb, the moon. It must have been night, above the ocean, making a path on the waves, gilded invitation, the parchment moon. Or the day moon, see-through-y wafer over desert, caught in the arms of saguaro, thin-skinned, heart-stuck moon. Blue as new milk, aquarium water, Mexican tile, blue as cold-bitten fingertips, nailbeds’ quick-blue arcs, half-moons. How I felt when I saw my first grown boy, round-eyed,
