Clouds have never moved
more quickly than here
under the blaze.
A child’s laugh has never fallen
on softer ears than mine, now.
I watch her spoon pasta,
painting red her lace bib.
The water never cooler,
as condensation on a glass
of spiked lemonade.
Stone never felt refreshing
on bare feet, as here in this city.
And I miss you.
Your hands were rough,
But they made sturdy dreamcatchers,
pointing out shapes in the clouds.
I imagine the father you would have made,
better than mine, I now know.
But I didn’t want two girls and a boy,
even if I could’ve given them to you.
Our martini nights so quickly turned
sour, like the salted limes on glass,
It’s funny how we called it passion.
