By Melissa Crowe
Where there were pale pink moons, barely
distinct from the milk-sky around
you have made dark disks, fist-sized and freckled,
islands even in your near-sighted first days you will not miss.
Where I was narrow, slim as a stream, barely
a trickle through powdered ground
you have carved your outlet, canal of space from hip to hip,
through which you will swim into this bright sea.
Where I was free, blank and smooth as a sheet, barely
love-pocked, or weather-rippled,
you have marked me, made me your own, purple striped
by your growth and stretched for your passage to come.
I have made you, yes, each diamond scale of your side
I have sculpted, each gill reddened
with my own particular air. And you, you have made me,
you have made me everything you will need.