Balthazar 21

xxi.

The moon is like a silverblueballoon that slowly rises into the sky carrying Balthazar with it like one of those string tied letters sent to the wind. Balthazar sits on his bed looking out the window, the same window he has been looking out ever since his father came home from work. The moonlight sneaks through the window startling the cat and then into his room. Mom? (he thinks) is that you? He knows it’s not but…somewhere inside his body, maybe in his young heart already made more of memory than muscle, she’s still here washing dishes, the steam from the sink fogging the window where she draws hearts with the yellow plastic gloved hand and in every heart she ever drew, in the middle of it, she always wrote the letter B.

B pushes his bed closer to the window, spreads the curtains wide and opens it. The moon is bright and fuller than full. The moon is now at every window of every house, and the moon has become so big it fills the whole sky, silvering all the open fields of the world— Balthazar, throws all the bedding to the floor and takes off his shirt. He lies there with the moon so big that the man on the moon gives him a bright kiss— while Balthazar outlines the letter B on the bare skin above his small glowing breast; over and over and over again.

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