By Kaecey McCormick
We sit on the cool rocks and watch the stars swing past the moon
kicking up the dirt, dropping pixelated tears as they go.
It's seeing this with you against the silhouette of our grief:
the burned dreams, the small mounds of dirt under too-large stones,
our fingers reaching for each other's in the dark.
Their laughter breaks through the glass of our memories,
turns our shroud to dust, tugs at our lips and pulls up the corners.
It dries our eyes with handkerchiefs sewn from patchwork dresses
dyed in kindergarten colors and the mood shifts, floats us toward the harvest moon—
raises our eyes from the dead.
I'm watching you smile as you watch their joy and a quiet thrill grabs
my throat because I know what we have though not enough is enough.
And my fingers
as they stroke the soft flesh on the inside of your arm
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