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.