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Eclipse by Amanda Roth


I snuck him out of bed at a quarter to three,

wrapped him in his grandmother’s blanket,

and carried his growing body into the night.

The earth’s shadow had already begun

to cover the moon and I held his whispered

awe against my chest. He is on the edge

of turning six, on the cusp of every memory

he’ll ever carry. He doesn’t know this,

but the time has come for him to step out

of my shadow. What does it say about me that I need this,

even if neither of us are ready?

Just before totality, he looks up

at me with those blue moon eyes

and says his legs are cold,

unlocks himself from my arms,

walks himself back

inside. He is sliding out

of my orbit. I can only watch

him glow.

Amanda Roth (she/her) is a poet whose work explores motherhood, embodiment, and the climate crisis. She is the author of the full-length poetry collection, A Mother’s Hunger (2021) and has work appearing or forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review, Portland Review, the lickety split, MAYDAY, and elsewhere. Online:


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