Moon Children

NATASHA RAMOUTAR

I wonder if us moon children, soft-shell crabs that lie on sandy shores where the water lapses to kiss the land, were always destined to be like this. Made more emotional than we are, gaslit to the point of explosion. The root of the word lunacy is Luna, as if the moonlight itself and the shimmering of the night were the cause of it all, as if flesh and bone, intention and accusation had nothing to do with it.