[ Issue #2 ]

The moon is a crumb in the sky,

my littlest seed informs me from her car seat, her hair a tangled mess of vines; her eyes round as lemons.

How is it that 76 moons ago she sprouted inside me, pushing through, skin purple as lavender and tongue red as fire sticks, on a Sunday evening when the moon was a waning crescent?

And why is it—on this night when she explains lunar cycles— that I want to pluck her up and stop her growing so that she can never, ever wax larger than six?

Tell me, I say, what happens after the moon disappears?

Oh, she says, shrugging, don’t worry, it always comes back

Oh, if only children were moons.

Yet her roots grow deeper every day.

​

​

​

​

Kris Ann Valdez is a proud Arizona native, mother to three littles & freelance writer. Most recently, her creative nonfiction won first prize in the annual Tempe Writes 2024 Anthology, while her personal essays and poetry have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Calla Press Literary Journal, Motherwell, Motherly, among others. Follow her @krisannvaldezwrites