A quarter of it
The noise retrieved as the silver orb
dissolved into her comfort shape.
There was still the box you handed me
the other hurried afternoon with
your sweat and ignorance and all:
The childhood, your face, a flashback.
It’s odd. We’ve never shared the sweetness
in it. Not on a hill, not in the stars.
The feast is always for innate families
we once were: the time your smile reflected
my devotion and warmth to a momentary
figure. Your eyes shimmered against my voice.
It was as if we have hardly been more than
photos. The box sits still by
the desk. Not to waste what it meant to
house, I had to take out a moon from the
four. And managed to swallow a cutout of
our remaining past.
