That Night, the Dark

Their father tore the green gate open;
strode up the street and disappeared.
The moon was small that night, the dark 

dark. I only hope they keep memories of years
still mostly unscarred, before and after
their father tore the green gate open.

Like stitches pulled out or loosened:
a nerve pried open, detached from its stem.
The moon was small that night, the dark

dark as the denseness of time unopened.
Who even remembers now what it was about, 
when their father tore the green gate open. I

willed it close. I shut it with my own hand, 
refused  judgment or another's authorship. 
The moon was small that night, the dark

dark as ink from a gleaming bottle. But the moon wanes
and brightens, constant through its cycles. I couldn't
see it when their father tore the green gate open.
The moon was small. That night, the dark.