Pregnant by the moon, I shoo him away from my windowsill.
I don’t tell him it’s whiskey in this Dixie cup
I don’t tell him I never go to the grocery
I don’t tell him I threw away all the oranges,
still ripe, still good.
Voyeurism is illegal in the Midwest, I remind the moon,
while my belly grows. You’re little, you’re small he calms my fear
I don’t tell him sometimes I want the sun
or where I hide my cash.
He is perfect –He does all the moon things:
Waxes, wanes, reads non-fiction
I don’t tell him my skin is too slick to hold.