The next evening,
cicadas gave testimony
in their lazy accent—
your Judas kiss
from the dugout
next to Barb’s Burgers
under the periwinkle moon.

That empty ball field,
a barren beach.
Wind blowing red clay waves
over third base.

The summer air
weaving your breaths
into a scarf of deceit,
your hair in pony tail
until he slid
the band off,
releasing the bundle
of buff sea grass
down your neck.
The kiss, a shy,
soft shell crab
burying itself in the deep.

You’ll say “we need
to talk” but no.
My heart will drown
with the stars
you watched fall
into the black ocean
of last night’s sky
with him.