Eclipse
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: https://msha.ke/amandarothpoetry