What Then?

by Marissa Bell Toffoli.

 

Resist the evening,
the settling of scores.

Watch our cocktails
sweat next to the binoculars
on the patio table.

Our shade grows long.
My boy palms
his silhouette–everything
still new. Suspended

between generations.
Your wise hands to his youth.

Instead of anchored, unmoored.
I hunger for stories,
but you’re not one for sepia tones.

I gather my skirts, swish questions
off the ground, tuck my legs
under my body. Fold to take
the least space possible.

First, I want to disappear.

Then, to hold all of this.
Be shadow instead of awkward fingers.

 

 

This entry was posted in Summer 2017: First Hell, Then Purgatory, Then What?. Bookmark the permalink.

Comments are closed.