Moonchild

whatever slid into my mother's room that late june night, tapping her great belly, summoned me out roundheaded and unsmiling. is this the moon, my father used to grin. cradling me? it was the moon but nobody knew it then. the moon understands dark places. the moon has secrets of her own. she holds what light she can. we girls were ten years old and giggling in our hand-me-downs. we wanted breasts, pretended that we had them, tissued our undershirts. jay johnson is teaching me to french kiss, ella bragged, who is teaching you? how do you say; my father? the moon is queen of everything. she rules the oceans, rivers, rain. when I am asked whose tears these are I always blame the moon.