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.