The Moon was the first wild thing to follow me home.
"Mother, may I keep him?"
"Her, dear, and let me see – oh. She's pregnant.
If it was just her, then maybe,
but can you imagine trying to care for 6 or 7, or 8 little moons?
Setting and rising and rising and setting all over the house?
Tides in the oatmeal,
The toilet?
She's wild. She'll be happier in the sky."
"But she followed me home."
"Put her back outside."

I still let her follow me home, but she stays outside –
Waits for me at the window awhile, then rolls away.
I shut my bedroom door, close the shutters, then crawl under my bed.
It's here, in the cigar box with the river rocks and seashells:
Glowing and precious, the size of a silver dollar – not even its first crater.
I fall asleep to its sweet unblink.