Yesterday, I looked back, shaving. A moth crawled through the fog of my face in the mirror. An open window unmakes a wall, the house. Last night, I pointed my son to the climbing moon, the moon dragging its blue mane behind. Our knees were wet. Our knees were whipped red by grass. Today, I barred his arms as the nurse placed her needle. However softly I whispered, he bled. What cuts him is the love in my voice. Tonight, a mantis will fish moths from the porchlight. We’ll watch as she folds wing and body into her pinhole mouth. Then we’ll pray.