Let’s write a poem before we fall
out of bounds for another day. Let’s pen the words
in the dead of night, and hope they don’t get found.
I remember, Charlie, Michelle, Mohammad, Amelie,
or whatever your name is, the first time I caught
my fingers in a shut, and the burn that ignited
flew down my spine, so I cried for an hour
before my mother put out the fire.
I think of that heat
with each love I leave, outside beneath windows with eyes
fishhooked the moon. Stranger, who may be reading,
do you recall your first skinned knee, and the weight
of a heart sitting on you?
Let’s all take our breaths
and blow on the glass, then take our hands
and press them, the silhouette a shoreline
while the mist rolls on by.
I’ll be carrying wine all morning, all afternoon, all end.
In the festivities, there’s grieving, in the lies
truth can be found on the back porch.
Keep it close, and don’t die,
keep it close, my friend,