They named my Moon Icarus
after the surgery. Mother, worrying
and nervous, was pacing about the ward
when they wheeled me in. Her hands fumbling
and her eyes darting, she regarded me with remorse.
“Oh, darling, sweet child. I’m so sorry.”
Her voice, quivering and shaking upon the
tip of her lower lip, she murmured,“They found him cowering just
a little above your heart.”Icarus is spreading himself in my bloodlines
and soon, I will no longer be able to breathe.
The Moon takes our breath away.
I know this because I’ve been told of
the horrors in bedtime stories.
They tell us children to be careful
for the special ones will be plagued by Moons.
If we’re naughty, they warn, we’ll be
diseased and we’ll each be cast out of the village.“Inside her bony cage was a light that stirred
chaos and died out quietly.”Us, Children of the Moon, are misfits.
Long ago, as the legends tell, Mother Earth
once, too, had a Moon that one day
burnt out. And that year, in every village,
the children started glowing. From
within their chests, a soft light bloomed
and from within their lungs, the air ran loose.
We are helpless lambs, Mother says, and
the Moons are our hungry wolves.“I’m sorry, Mother, but do the doctors know that
Icarus flew, too?”
