We tell the children not to look up, expecting a miracle. During dismissal,
a coworker asks if the moon is supposed to affect her like this—
to change the way she sleeps with her husband and she expects me
to have the answers, like I keep them in my palms. The moon moves
and turns the sun into the shape of a fetus. In another life, we walked
in rooms without statues, and the world was filled with mothers
pouring themselves into the streets—the only way pavement, cracked
with stretching green, can comfort a woman. And in that life, we needed
cigarettes and questions about war and jazz and maybe even the boys
from our long-lost hometowns. Because maybe answers aren’t needed.
Because nothing is different, and we never look at the sky anyway.