I was with her on the face
of the lunar eclipse and we were drawing a different galaxy.
Delighted in her moon beam capacities
she drew her family except the house and dog.
No room for civilities
on the page, and I was with her until
the hand. A circle with five lines radiating out
or in, depending on the sharpness of the crayon.
no difference between thumb and pinkie
just claws of a primitive self.
promiscuously promising a future without concert pianists
or delicate cupcakes. I panicked
trying to cover my own hand
beginning to ask about the shape of a palm
but such questions are usually squelched by inadequacies—
the sound of her parents’ car scraping against pavement.
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