Jax Traps the Moon

I want to give you four full paragraphs, one for each color I see in the birth pangs of your arrival: lead, peony, lavender, rust. See how careful I was with the flowers?

More than once, I must admit that I’m all out of order. This one is morose, maddening, muddy with stomped-on petals and the smell of my grandma’s garden beds. I don’t sleep well when you arise, weeping for the lost night. It comes in a shadow. The light is cast through a filter no one asked to be there, a pinhole camera that’s just a dented tin can. We had days of it in October when I saw you not once past the sheet on my shoulder, the smell of old lavender. We lamented ourselves and how we fit into their puzzles. I never followed up.

Low, tender blossoms.

Grief is a long exposure.

On that night in March, I recall the valleys of your face as they collapsed. Gentle rivulets. The great shadow overcame, at once ravishing drive and smooth caress, and I don’t know if you knew but billions of eyes came out to see you. You never told me what it was. I don’t suppose you’ll answer now. I was standing out on a deck, overhearing the koi pond and geese. A precious evening. You became the glow I strive to be.

Oh, but don’t worry about me. I stare up at the sky every night when I’m not delirious. We shrink ourselves into unfolding houses and trap our names in pieces. The pangs do not stop. The hidden world you’d most like to return to never stops. Yours is a fate I can only touch the hem of, and broken things cannot bestow healing. I am delirious most days.

Those who speak well, curse.

Dusk crafts a curtain of shade

Tongues of wicked tents.

Near you, I am most uneasy. You cry like me—even in slivers. You bend to crowded skies, the sea, the Saturn eye. Still you are abandoned. In spirit, so am I. We’ve named this feeling blue—numb fingers, choking hearts. Come January, I’ll tell you a story about it all. The twilight hats and hunter bows. You’d like the ancient namer who was bluer, even, than star-tipped flax.

His name was Jax.