We lived in the seam
between Cold War silence
and the heat of hands—
the years stitched together so tightly,
they held their breath,
a suitcase packed too full,
corners bulging with regret.

Across the ocean,
a man stood tall in the jaw of a tank,
his thin body pushing Tiananmen
into the world's throat.
The Berlin Wall cracked open,
a spine giving way,
but here, our fences just leaned,
with nothing left to say.
In backyards,
mothers shook bedsheets into the wind,
their corners snapping,
with a kind of surrender—
white flags waving
at a sky that couldn’t decide
what kind of world to be.

We scuffed sidewalks to dust,
our sneakers worn to ghosts of themselves.
The ocean spilled black grief—
a thick smear across its skin.
The EPA gave it a name—Exxon Valdez,
as if naming a tide might prevent wildlife
from drowning in crude oil—
we knew better and called it shame.

Fathers rolled out the BBQs,
the smoke, too heavy to rise,
thick from waiting all winter,
watched VHS tapes stutter backward—
memories we couldn’t quite catch
or frame into something solid.

The world shifted that year,
but not all at once—
it came quietly,
like the first thaw nipping at winter.

We didn’t feel it until later,
when the ache began to spread,
pounding beneath the skin
like an old injury
we couldn’t remember earning.