When my Mother Speaks of the Moon by C.L. Liedekev

In the 1970s, I was told that birth was a night sky,
she tilted her mouth open and became the moon,
become the vector where talk of rain
becomes an announcement
over the tin radio in the ceiling:
patient mixed with light and blood,
oak floors were swollen into feet, the pollen of thunder
pounds lungs as nurse’s orders, the void of the father.

I bloomed inside her, pastels and memory,
metal and gears of labor,
the snapped twig of my sister
outside in the waiting room, as she walked
she left a trail of crayons,
tiny constellations of colors leading
straight into the dark mornings that followed.

When my mother speaks of the moon, she speaks of the past.
Before I cried for hours, before the living room walls
were bleached in yellow smoke,
dogs rested in piles
on the floor, blankets of fur, before the grace of her life waxed
and filled the apartment with its mass.

C.L. Liedekev is a confirmed poet who lives in Conshohocken, PA with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in a Southern chunk of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, MacQueen's, Hare’s Paw, River Heron Review, amongst others. His poem, “November Snow. Philadelphia Children’s Hospital” is a finalist for the 2021 Best of the Net.