It was winter.
The boy…young man…child…
(he was all at once)
sat on the frozen ground in the middle of the football field looking up at the clear night sky. Black-blue background dotted with the white pinprick specks of stars. The moon was gibbous, waxing. The boy lifted his right arm and reached to the sky. He cupped his hand under the butt of the moon, cradling the baby in the palm of his hand.
The man in the moon was a baby tonight.
He held him for a few moments.
Then the earth shifted, the moon lifted,
and the boy knew what he would do.
Later, at home, he packed a bag and left.
It was time.
His parents…his first loves…his knives in the back…
(they were all at once)
would wake in the morning, find the note on their boy’s pillow, and cry. They would blame themselves.
They were guilty…innocent…right…wrong…
(they were all at once)
but the boy was free.
