whatever slid into my mother's room that <br />late june night, tapping her great belly, <br />summoned me out roundheaded and unsmiling. <br />is this the moon, my father used to grin. <br />cradling me? it was the moon <br />but nobody knew it then. <br /> <br />the moon understands dark places. <br />the moon has secrets of her own. <br />she holds what light she can. <br /> <br />we girls were ten years old and giggling <br />in our hand-me-downs. we wanted breasts, <br />pretended that we had them, tissued <br />our undershirts. jay johnson is teaching <br />me to french kiss, ella bragged, who <br />is teaching you? how do you say; my father? <br /> <br />the moon is queen of everything. <br />she rules the oceans, rivers, rain. <br />when I am asked whose tears these are <br />I always blame the moon.<br /><br />Lucille Clifton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/moonchild/
