By Catherine Esposito Prescott

When my son decided it was morning,
the sky inked into blue,
and the bright moon sank behind violet.
We walked and with no names for things
he focused on the lines between
avenue and palm tree, gecko and grass blade,
the lines that keep everything
separate, or was that it?
As mother, as translator, I should know
better than to guess, but maybe he noticed then
just shapes and light, and how they blend
into one another -- into rectangle and street, triangle and sky --
how they form one fluid line from being to being
like the line between us: one time a coiled cord,
now my arm keeping him to my hip, his hand as it reaches
to cup the oval of my face and extends toward
the dark sky breaking into blue. This is how
we greet the sun each day: with our palms cupped,
and waving, as if we could catch it,
as if it were not already inside us.

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