Moon at Half Past Noon

Mama’s stainless steel thali shows me
a wobbling moon-face,
her laughter rippling my edges.
I poke my finger through
what should be solid—
first lesson:
nothing holds its shape forever.

Bathroom mirror after the fistfight,
my split lip grinning red.
The popular boys taught me
how blood tastes different
when it’s your own.
I press the wound shut,
watch myself become
the kind of animal
that learns to smile
while bleeding.

Her compact mirror lies open—
two faces in its oval frame.
She says “You’re beautiful”
but the glass shows truth:
my hunger has edges
that cut her when we embrace.
At night I whisper to my reflection:
“If you were enough, she wouldn’t keep checking for cracks.”

Elevator doors slide shut—
a stranger in a tie blinks back.
His eyes have that polished look,
the kind that comes
from rubbing yourself raw
against ambition.
I touch the cold surface:
“When did you learn to nod like that?”
The doors open.
We both step forward.

My daughter holds up her crayon drawing:
“This is you, Papa!”
The purple stick figure
has my exact worried forehead.
Her tiny palms frame my face,
remapping it with her fingerprints.
For the first time
I don’t check for flaws—
her love makes mirrors
unnecessary.

Doctors’ office window,
rain streaking the glass.
The man in the reflection
has my mother’s stoop now,
my father’s trembling hands.
I raise my arm—
he does too, but slower.
We’re becoming
the same kind
of ghost.

Nurse wipes my glasses,
but the world stays blurred.
Doesn’t matter—
I’ve memorized every version:
the eager boy,
the hungry lover,
the careful father,
the dying man.
When the light hits just right,
I see them all
dancing in the window,
finally
unafraid
of breaking.