The moon is high in broad daylight.
Rooted, like winter squash in August.
The soft thud of hatred echoes in her
body. She wakes in the night to listen
to its rhythm. A child, broken and
twisted, falls from the sky.
No mistake in the garden,
no error in the heavens.
Her insides twitch and burn
and curve. Love goes mad, a child
conceived in sorrow, his mother torn
from the earth and spinning, spinning.