Moon broken, my son said
when he was two,
and he pointed east
to the quarter moon.
Mommy fix it.
He believed I could.
I wanted to believe it, too,
wanted to believe
I could fix any broken thing—
the loose button on a doll,
the ripped page in a book,
a scraped up knee,
a tattered dream.
Tonight I gaze
at the low crescent moon.
I have lost my belief
in fixing.
Count me among
the broken things.
And my son is gone.
And my son is gone.
And the beautiful moon slips lower
into the almost dark.