I take my son into the dusk,
under trees still heavy
with the season’s first rain.

We watch as the entire
face of the moon darkens,
like a child with a bad cold.

I show him — my right hand,
the earth, hides my left, the moon,
from the sun, my son.

He has a book that shows
the solar system, so he knows
that the moon rotates around the earth,

just as the mom orbits the son.
“Where is the earth?” he wants
to know. “Which earth?” I ask.

“The one in the sky,” he says,
pointing at an invisible planet
in the fragrant emptiness

beyond the trees, the one
blocking the sun’s light
and giving the moon a chill.

“You’re standing on it,” I say.
He looks at me, perhaps wondering
if all adults can lie so easily.