is celebrated with a call through tin can phones
connected by yarn-                           to us. He sends warm wishes and warnings, slurred together as                spirits replace blood. Our kiss was nine rings around the tin can ago,      under a streetlamp where you've unveiled a pool of               Acacias and shamrocks.

We are crafted of cement chips from the streets we once sauntered.
We grasp for one another's hands on playground equipment,
stomachs full of one-dollar cinnamon rolls from Jewel-Osco,
cowering from the sun like children in a blanket fort.

we are safe                 when we are together              we are invincible

There will always be splinters of us. My name
is spelled out where the light meets the street  –
a balmy, January sunset           birthing,
                                                                ­      crawling to a dry.