NEW MOON, 11 DAYS LEFT
When we were little
April and I used to climb
Dad’s huge body. He would say
girls, I’m not a piece of furniture,
laugh anyway.
Now acupuncture needles slight as whiskers
climb over his wide forehead,
his naked calves,
dry hands.
Mom asks how it feels and he says
some are a quick sting, just a mosquito bite,
others like opening a gaping hole.
Gloria says every time his tummy grumbles,
it means his Chi’s moving, it’s a good sign.
With each grumble,
each dancing needle,
I dare myself to
hope
like a child,
hands crossed
at her windowsill,
eyes locked
on a wishing star.