--John A. Nieves
I remember the small distances, the way we would hold them
like a cricket in our hands, how the darkness would turn
that distance into a throbbing song, something like the blood
rushing through our ears from too much strain. I can still
taste the cold seeping under the door downstairs, how the stars
gathered like tin on the back of our tongues. Listen. I know
the years are torn rags stretched between us, eaten
by the sea. I am well aware how quickly intimacy becomes
anonymity in the icy wash of time. Listen. The leaves
are shushing our thoughts with their rustling susurrus, begging
us to fall like them and let go the work done, the inches
grown. In this night though, there are no colors to change to. There
is no moon to see us turn our backs on the sun, so if we open
slowly, if we uncup our hands, what will jump? What will stay?
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