Dysplasia

When I was born my hip bones resisted
their sockets. In that gap, dark
slender spaces. Curves of crescent
moons—dividing, resentful of hanging
so far from the sky.

Doctors probed, set
4-inch metal pins to ligaments
stuck needles in my veins
scraped for thin shadows of tissued
shades, lifting them into light.

Finally, bone broke through the moon
retreating close against socket.

Over time, their union became
swifter, smoother. They now eclipse
in natural order; their rotation
steady, and strong.

And yet, there are still traces of
moon dust, drifting—

mornings of fog and rain.
A stretch of something dark and filmy,
nearly shadow, yet penetrating.
This fixed divide between satellite and sky
where what should shine retrogrades.

.