The Moon and Me

She slaps a hard blade of ice white light across my eyes, peeking in from the highest corners of my bedroom windows. 

“Let me be,” I tell her. “Don’t you know I am old? Of the earliness of babes? How a husband’s lunch won’t pack itself?”

“You used to sit with me,” she says. “You used to sit with me and make. Make as I stretched my back across the sky, critiquing in your work from all of East to West. Your Work used to fill horizons. When you’d sit with me and make.”

“And make,” I sigh. My eyelids no longer able to tread water, they give into to the deep ocean of sleep. I cannot feel it yet, but the small baby in my womb–no bigger than a mango, sprouts its very first hair.

The moon looks at me, her white light filling every tiny fissure in the skin around my eyes. She pats each one gently, pulls a black cloud about her shoulders, and hums me a lullabye.