Sun and Moon

Leona Sevick

If you ask me anything about him,
and I mean the simplest question
about his age or what he likes to do,
I’m likely to answer in a complicated way
that you are not prepared for.
You will judge me, and I will hate you,
and we will not be friends.
In earshot of the man who shares my
bed, who cooks me scrambled eggs
in the dark hours of the morning,
I’ll hold my tongue, but to you
I will speak the truth of my
constrained heart.  He is the love
of my life, my alpha and omega,
the dark pull that began at
the blood-wash moment of his birth.
His happiness is my relief, his sadness
my undoing. And yes, if you must know,
I’m having trouble letting go, though I
won’t answer for it to you or anyone
who knows not how it feels to keep
a human being alive with your body.
Listen carefully. Next time I speak these
truths, I’ll direct them to the sun and moon,
who’ll know exactly what I mean.