For over four years I worked at a newspaper in Tooele County, a rural desert county in Utah. I had a coworker once say the county is a collection of almosts—it could be almost a fantastic hiking ... [+]
in my chest i hold
flickering nights on your couch,
crumbs between the blankets.
a movie plays; you pass the chips.
the whole thing is scary.
we giggle anyways.
later, i will sleep on your floor
and you, you can tell me everything.
outside, the moon begins to grow
but tell me.
you must tell me.
the exact shade of his hair, when it fell on yours––
who caught your throat this time? then slit it?
your mother’s songs, her father’s tongues,
recite their cacophony and don’t forget
why you cried last march, how old you feel,
how young you really are.
tell me.
before it all blends and blends and begs to be thrown away.
--
dear friend,
the moon has told me
ten years out, we won’t speak anymore.
not for loathing, or languish-ment.
but just–– because.
just be.
just
.
--
for in the light,
still i find
this sisterhood
lies bone to bone.
you and i
underneath. both
a ways away
from home
