Light

In my Sunday afternoon tutoring session,

I explain to my student the text we just read
about how there is no twilight on the moon.
It says that light holds onto the air,
and because there is no air in space,
there is no transition between day and night;
between light and darkness. And I’m just
thinking back to the morning:
about the lesson plan

of your metronome breathing,
the college ruled creases you graffiti
with your head on my pillowcase,
my cheek pressed against your chest
like a sturdy desk in study hall
that opens to reveal all sorts
of hidden galaxies. I point to the text.

“It is as dark as midnight
right after the sun sets,
as bright as midday in the morning.”

And I think about how glad I am
to not live on the moon: to experience the other-
wordliness of waking up
in blankets and embraces
painted by rosy-cheeked skies,
in air that has the ability to hold
onto light at sundown,
and find their way back
to each other in the morning
the way our bodies do.