I have a moon inside of me.
It’s a rare disease, I know.
When I was young, I mistook it
for religion, the way I would glow
when my moon was gibbous. I examined
my illumination in the bathroom mirror
while my older sister banged on the locked door.
“Mom, she’s taking too long!” she’d complain.
I knew I couldn’t explain. Sometimes my moon
would move into my mouth and strange words
broke out. “Quiverilly!” I’d plead to my dad.
He just looked away. Sometimes I’d feel my full
moon in my right knee and jump and jump
in my backyard at dusk, underneath the old apple tree
along with all those lightning bugs I thought were little
creatures born from the moon. My little moon dolls.
These days, I keep my moon mostly behind my heart, where its
phases are quick as heart-beats, one second full, the next
waning. I used to think it was love. Now I have the moon-sense
to know it’s probably just reflection, or some rotational pull.