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.