Your eyes always seem wanting, waiting. Skimming the edge of brave;
Don’t close them just yet
Something is always getting through, you see. Your hands tell stories; cusping the air between words
That’s where you’ll find me.
That’s where I find you.
That’s where we find the end.
Sitting on a swing too hot for my legs and summer didn’t care; I could tell by how it tries to imprint youth on my peach legs.
The house is swollen with heat, and mom told me to play outside. I was getting too old to “play,” but at ten, I wanted to hold onto the sweet hand of adolescence as long as I could.
Our two swings hang from the same poles as our laundry. The pieces of clothing are like lifeless people on display. I look at each piece as I swing.
Church dress; the frills and bows quietly shush me.
Older sister’s jeans; dripping blue with envy at the hem.
Mom’s favorite dress; the shape of crimson wisdom fills the yard.
I picture it draped on me, and stop swinging. The dress goes passed my feet; dirty toes peek out like little pieces of charcoal.
It was like you were
made of silence,
But I heard you
And my heart,