I used to dream that I was a descendant of the moon.

Our omma’s face beautiful and round. 

Her brightness honored a cycle

unafraid of changing capacities.

Comforted by the bravery of her aloneness, 

I prayed in secrecy to her each night.

Sharing with her everything but my deepest desires,

I silently wondered if she missed me too. 

The yearning

in my bae

  grew,

and grew,

and 

grew.