We almost had it, that
golden spider-web ending,
a halo hanging from dewy leaves.
You looked up and smiled at it, pointed,
marveled.

But it was me –
me who cut it down,
who reached up and yanked,
who watched the yarn unravel,
spiral,
fall.

It was my hand that scooped
damp twigs and dirt away,
and made a shallow grave,
and watched the halo flicker
and fade.

You stood, arms at your sides,
defenseless, or else hopeless
and watched my eulogy,
and saw my mud-stained face
cry, and did
nothing
at all.

He smelled like a fall evening –
                      the distinct mix of dusty leaves, hay, and candy apples
                                          combined with pumpkins and acorns.
So I let him take my hand, his fingers weaving in between mine,
                  the way the October stars gently twisted through the sky.
                                            And we stood and looked up.
For the longest time, there was silence save for the sound of
                  a seventy-year old’s clapping shoes as she strolled across the
                            dance floor, on her way to do-si-do with her husband.
Appalachian hills gleamed under the harvest moon, as he smiled,
                      asked if I would like to run through the corn maze with him.
I said yes, of course I would, and would he be able to keep up with
                     the six-year old sprinters who would beat us to the finish?
He laughed, and the clouds overhead dispersed, revealing only velvet atmosphere.
                                   We ran for minutes, tripping over our
shoelaces, occasionally being startled by the tractor toting happy families
                                        who were on hayrides together. But we made it
To the finish, where we collapsed on the cool dirt, grasping our sides and
                                         laughing as loud as we could.

We stood in the darkness, sharp air
                     piercing our windpipes, and rubbed
                     our hands together. Your eyes trailed across
the empty skyline, life fading from behind azure pupils.
I brushed back my hair, breathed – the white smoke
                     spiraling up 34th street and into our old bedroom,
                     over the paisley bedspread where she stretched.
Her gold curls laughed, bounced, and then stopped abruptly.
                     My hazel bewilderment met her manicured eyebrows.
                                           I knew.
                                          She realized.
So I moved toward her shadow, and she blinked. I reached
                     across her petite frame, and left the ring on our old
                     bedside table. But I took
                                           the flashlight,
                                           because I am still afraid of the dark.

She hadn’t packed yet, just wouldn’t, stamped a foot, flat-
out refused. Her fingers wound around blades of grass,
                     and she tugged, ripping them from the ground.
                     She’d take them with her, in a jar, so that the fireflies,
they’d have some food on the trip down south.
And as she crossed state lines, she shook the jam jar, and the
                     golden rim rattled along with the gravel roads.

But before she reached North Carolina, they were dead,
                    little fallen comrades, “I Spy” companions, and night-
lights. Now there was a Ramada, and a Hilton, and a scratchy blanket.
And she kicked it off and sat upright in bed and
                                          dripped with sweat, because it was July.
                                          The air conditioner rattled, spat out must, and Mama snored.

During the day, the suitcases opened their mouths, swallowed new belongings,
                     an alligator t-shirt for her,
                     a neon yellow sundress for Mama,
                     socks and flip-flops and toothbrushes and underwear to replace
what was left behind in their hurried packing.

Mama didn’t cry herself to sleep anymore.
                     She just drove and drove, and her eyes stayed dry,
                     and her arms weren’t black and purple,
because there was no more screaming, and no more sirens–
just singing.

“It’ll be all right, baby.”
“It’ll be all right.”

Even though they were dead, the fireflies sang from the hotel balconies,
                     and the greasy fast-food chains,
                     and the new apartment in Florida where Daddy could never go.

She watched as
starlight tangoed with
earl gray dawn, and
pink cotton clouds
dripped
down the horizon line.
The crickets trembled,
kissed the dewy blades
of grass, then
departed, underground, or
into the oak trees.
And she folded her bare
knees toward her chest,
clutched them
tightly while a sun-
flower scented breeze
tickled the hairs on her arm.
The pale moon faded
into azure morning and
each constellation
evaporated into
wispy white clouds.
So she gathered her
belongings, but left
the letter –
it’s buried there,
beneath the sprawling
autumn foliage,
waiting
for you to resurrect it.

I wish I could hold
your hand,
but instead, I am
forced to cling to
the pale orange glow of
a dying
candle, and watch
as memories
fall
between
my fingertips.

You spend the night
sipping chai tea
in front of
our bubbling fireplace,
while I gather my patch-
work romanticism,
frame our
futures, then tuck them
into the ashes.

I’ll leave by morning,
while you snore
quietly. I’ll step
into
brown leather boots,
as the gray dawn
makes me catch
my breath.

But the wax will
drip, will
tickle the legs
of your antique
coffee table,
and you’ll
miss me.

He yawned and I
yearned to cradle him,
to kiss his face, but he fell
asleep on my grandmother’s
crocheted afghan.
So I rolled onto my back,
and a string unraveled,
lassoed the new moon and pulled
the stars down, sprinkling
them across my lap, while some fell
into the black lake.
I wanted to dip my pale toes into
the water, feel the ice tango through
my empty veins.

But I stayed, watching as
bruised skies healed into warm
rays of orange, embracing
the horizon. And I turned
on my side to welcome you,
to whisper We made it. Your eyes
followed my mouth, silently agreed,
but kept their distance, and our palms
never touched.