Remember that night when you were ten and we walked
for miles through the neighbours’ clipped fields,
the moonlight so strong we never missed a footing
over fences, the hip of Lorenzetti’s ridge, the road, the creek,
past the dam and up the wide blue moonscape of the far hill.
Hana was a little girl and I had to carry her home.
We walked up the driveway to our place,
out of smooth moonlight into electric light.
Hana fell into bed and you hugged me goodnight,
burying your face into my breasts as you did in those days
because I was half step-mother and half desirable,
and you were just the right height.
You grew, all legs and arms, and comforting you
became more difficult, your head waving up in the air
when it should have been on my shoulder.
And once you were grown, I couldn’t have had a better friend.
Thank you for being my stepson, for teaching me about boys,
for allowing me to mother you with my mother’s heart.