We will calculate
the weight of your last few months
by measuring the angles
of afternoon sunlight—
fiber-optic puddles with receding shorelines,

and we’ll rain dance every night
for more time.
In my quiet house, I’ll make you
a deep bed with seven layers
of patterned sheets and pink pillows.
Those little bunk beds
that dad built for us,
remember? That we kept
well after our feet dangled over
the edge.

I’ll say to you, remember
hula hooping until our hips bruised.
Remember sneaking out in our pajamas
to the night grass
and calling after constellations
who were not yet born,
who would never be.