Moon Charger

Julia Anna Morrison

We drink night milk with ice chips. We make quick

love. I quiet down with a thumbprint.

I have two lives, I tell you, and you agree.

Now that night comes sooner, my son grows in the bath

like a mega-magic-starfish from the dollar store, or the staircase is steeper

to his toy room.

I carry him anyway, a suitcase of stars.

I wear white socks, fluffy socks, identify the tree blooming in our windowsill.

I give my son a night bath, watch him play in the yard with sticks, the only light a

motion light and the shallow moon, an electrical outlet.

Plug the wrong wire into my computer, the watch charger, the phone power. I stare at

my son playing in the dark outside.

He needs privacy now, a notebook with a tiny golden key.

You doctor me. I stare at the painting of my cell phone. Text you back

and forth. Swipe blue light, swipe until blue light of morning, yolk bright.

Unplug my chargers, let go of each wire. I marvel at my son, want another.

Want a dozen others, all sleeping tangled, and the ocean—chilled and chilly.

Go to the doctor, spread my knees. Fill up the gas tank with diesel, boiled

lemon in my tea, sea salt on my soft egg. Start the oven timer.

I cook an ocean fish, a lake fish, a wild animal.

I look you in the eyes and say let’s start over.

About the writer