Equinox

The morning rises alongside us, wanting to be desired,

so we sit barefoot in the grass and let the wetness be. 

Fingers dig themselves into soil. Nails blackening, water lapping, dawn breaking. 

I am afraid of losing whichever moment this is. 

We do not speak. Silence fills the gaps between my teeth until 

the splash of a catfish cuts the air cold. Suddenly, we are fat with thought.

Mosquitos feed from my swollen ankles and I let them. 

It is August when she tells me that she is afraid to die. 

So when the night arrives too soon, wanting to be desired,

we fold our bodies into an envelope addressed to God. 

I carve Hail Marys into her skin until it hardens. Time continues without asking.

In another world we are sitting again in wet grass and in another world we are anywhere but here. 

It is September when I watch my mother cry for the first time. 

We stall out in the parking lot of a convenience store and let the radio drone on.

Neither of us are listening. We don’t know who we are. 

And still, the light from a street lamp above shines just for us.