The Moon walked along the coast
in the same white lace her mother wore
the night she was born.
While the tide was still low,
the Moon lay down, bruising
the wet sand beneath her.
As her pulse quickened, so did the tide.
The foam billowed about ankles.
Her toes dug into the sand.
In prayer, her hands clasped the hem of her dress.
Her voice became fleshtoned,
her knees bent, and the waves ran red.
The Moon knew by instinct to do all of this.
She felt as if she had watched herself
from the distance of the stars through a zoetrope .
The daughter of the Moon was born underwater.
Amar was whispered unto her mother,
the syllables filled her like a sonata.
Roberto F. Santiago
Artwork: Christian Schloe, “Meet the Moon”