The picket signs put your life at stake. With your hand in hers it is all you can do to keep moving forward because the signs are telling you that love is not love after all,
that eves proceed their holidays, spring freezes into winter which ripens to fall. Light burns off the earth in waves that crash into the sun.
Bodies float out of their graves like astronauts jettisoned from the shuttle. Dirt hardened by ages sighs beneath your toes, magma slithers back into volcanoes,
the biker’s tires only spin forward because he’s zooming back, he holds a beer can in his hand beneath one streetlight and a firefly in a jar beneath the next.
Children are releasing fireflies from jars, poking holes back into the lids, cutting off air supply, untelling lies.
And you, as you walk through the picketers, are become a child again, weaving through the legs of women and men a party, hugging your shoulders
to yourself again to confirm that they’re yours as you stand in a dress your mother picked out for you the night before.
As the picketers leave you fall, glasses crack, voice creaks like an attic door.
Rain dilutes the salt on your cheeks as it rises from the floor; this is a mind war. After all that backwards, this girl is not something you want to find beautiful anymore.
But you are still holding her hand. Look, she says to you, maybe G-d doesn’t mean it when He says He hates us. After all, He said let there be light, *and then there was darkness.