Moon

I leave my house, my two kids

newly asleep, to walk the dog.

The air is bathwater warm and still.

Every house we pass has the TV set on,

the alien light the only thing

visible in the black hole

of their living rooms.

I look up to check the moon,

its light through the branches

like a flashlight beam

though a black lace dress.

Do you remember when you learned

how the moon doesn’t make its own light,

how it only reflects light from the sun,

like some cosmic mirror?

Did you feel cheated

or did it seem more magical?

The way the moon is really always full.

Waxing gibbous, waning crescent—

it’s all a fancy way of saying

“The moon can’t reach all of the sun

right now. Please try again later.”

My shadow walks the dog too.

It’s strong now, but as I walk

it falters and disappears.

The next streetlight,

itself a faintly yellowed moon,

will give me a new shadow,

darker than the last.