Tomorrow Tanka

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.

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