In school we say moon,

a clean curve of sound.
     Mere lick of light, tapering neatly
                   to sharp-tipped
                                end.

But at home we say yueh: two
creamy syllables slurred and deigning
at first to the same pouting ooze, till
tidal habit, dragging down the
wave of our tongues, reveals

an orb

of luminous fruit in the dark,
blossoming full in our mouths.
(it is the yueh we let into our rooms,
in spite of what we’ve been told).