by Alexis Romano
I am a Moonchild’s child—
clean and sound and young—
always rolling
like waters,
always delicious
like the Eucharist,
always snapping
like carrots,
always clinging
like babies.
Babies!
I think of my babies
in the land of the sea,
never shut like seashells,
never split like watermelons.
I think of Julian—myson—dreaming of gods.
I think of Angel—mydaughter—dreaming of dogs,
I mean gods,
and they are as beautiful as rain || as saints || as sacraments.
Girl-child, Boy-child, the body does not flop like fish.
it is delicate like a newborn.
the body does not fold like chicken legs.
it is never sea angry like an animal.
the body does not sting like angry bees.
Remember this.
Remember it all.
