The day after the roof tips,
I catch you at the edge. Leaning
up against the fence, waiting
to see this thing come down.
You’re just as you had been,
laughing at the misspelled letters
of your childhood in Indiana,
thin ring of ochre on the collar
of your soft and starch-white shirt.
It’s easy to ignore such minor catastrophes:
what tips and tumbles to the landscape
one day to the next. What holds and heaves.
What the body gives
without much consequence.
Hauling lumber from the yard
I stop trying to know
what I knew I never could.
I’m grateful we will never come back whole
and how I know so well the way
you might pass your hand against your face
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 3.
See all items about Nina C. Pelaez