Molting

                                         
Why do we speak of streaks
of light, but never of darkness?

I stand inside the circle of an xray 
machine that revolves around my face 
to locate white shards of bone in my gum.

The moon is something that looks
like I could put in my mouth, says the child.

While we talk on the phone, picking
at the remnants of our meal, star
fragments wash up on the beach.

Small bodies shed their tiny houses in the sand, 
looking to move into an empty nautilus.