Jan 08

waxing moon

his shoulders stretch, 

just enough for a child’s heart 

to rest carefully on the edge of his 

collar bones. 

His arms are weighted just right, so that

an embrace from him feels like


His hands reconnect wires and heartstrings like he could do it while asleep. 

He bleeds his veins into his family. 

Into their own tendons. 

He pokes and prods at the gates 

between here and there. But

he knows his time is not near. 

He knows he must stay and whisper 

his sweet nothings into the ears of 

His three stars. 

He is the moon,

Light and dark,

known and unknown,

always changing;

but never leaving.
About the Author: lila woodard
'But to make yourself feel nothing - so as not to feel anything - what a waste!' - Andre Aciman, Call Me By Your Name