The moon: I was told it’s steadfast, it never leaves.
It watches from behind its curtains, sometimes letting
its full face show. The stars, on the other hand,
plant asterisks across darkness that is both desert
and field. I’ve been thinking of finally writing down
stories from that other time, the ones where the father
leaves for work in the mornings and the mother scrubs
the old-new house from top to bottom, erasing as much
of its histories as she could. She spoke of the oil portrait
of a president hanging in the foyer. A hired boy murmured
things to himself as he separated vine from flowering shrub.
The bathroom tiles were white and cold. Bright holding cell
with the sheen of bone, nothing gave beneath my slight weight, under
my small hand. High in the eaves a gecko sang Be brave, be brave.