the moon as refrigerator mother

in the oldest stories,

we thought you left us,

*

waning to the wisp

of a kiss blown over your shoulder,

*

abandoning us

to the mercy of the stars

*

and whatever we did

in the dark.

*

eventually we learned

not to cry

*

when we couldn’t find you,

took the push and pull

*

of the water’s edge

as a model – you would come

*

when you came,

and nothing we did

*

could change you.

eventually we learned

*

how to find each other

in your absence.

*

to tend to our own

wild and wounded selves,

*

lunged toward the sun

even as it burned.

*

(it felt more like love.)