When Yeye died, I drove with my wife to see the bay at low-tide, the sea baring its black teeth. Once, Yeye said the moon was born in two. Light lives to seek its mortal half, flipping our faces like coins to find the one it completes. When they called to tell me, my sisters were sharing a phone, speaking the word so slow it was two, de & ad, their teeth grinding into salt. He said once: the moon is a man who will marry you someday. At the bay, my wife calls to me in a language he never knew. Her mouth around my name: the moon.