Sinking Moons by Aidyn Smith

Her uncle worked endless nights in the fields

slaving, toiling, till every grain was placed

upon his back, a large woven basket

when he came home, hands aching from the night

she called out his name, curled up, shivering

he stumbled, legs weak from the long miles

finding his way through the dark, to her room

there she lay underneath one tattered

blanket—the one her mother wove for her

just before she passed. She glanced up at him

eyes wide, thankful that he returned again.

Sometimes she worried he would not come back

Just like her mother had, not long ago

He smiles, remembering the way she would laugh

“Papa,” she says, holding up her small hands.

He kneels down, the withered mattress sinking

Placing his callused hands on her shoulders

he smiles too. She sighs, thankful of

his warmth, his love, and the safety she feels

in his arms. They sit like this for awhile

Before long, he hears the soft coons of her

restful sleep; she is safe again, for tonight

He picks himself up, grunting so softly

So as not to wake his sweet precious girl

She is everything, and he knows she worries

He shuffles into the bedroom, dirt floors

give way to heavy tread. He thinks of her,

how she found a way to make something from

the nothing that they always had; “magic,”

their daughter used to coon, as she eyed the

suppers her mother would make every night.

But no matter, they had each other now

And they would find their way back again soon.

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