who is my father? she ask me, I don’t have language for her, for us, the night I fell asleep at my mother’s side and woke with her cradled toward my milk, only the mouthless moon could confess, no answer in her light, my mother, my daughter, my portal, my sum my maker, my making, my composer, my note I don’t have language for what she wants and even in language a him can’t happen. the moon won’t speak. who is my mother? I ask her. She lowers her head to the grass. she opens her mouth. yes, my girl. that way. //
