Cathexis Northwest Press

© 2018 

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              small hours, when language is still disguised 

as the fort imagination constructed overnight


when passing tires wicking rainwater 

are soft waves breaking in the distance 


when memories aren’t yet thoughts but pulses

when anchors are as unassuming as babies


these were the hours when i realized 

we can only greet each other by name for the first time once



              maybe it was your shape at the end of the hallway, or maybe 

the waves breaking, that caused the moment to become known but


it felt more like touching down than i thought it would, your name 

as did the way breaths bargained for silence until


i heard my name echoed like a gift



              and that was it 

and the moon was adamant, still waxing


and we were alone

and we alone gave witness

Amy Smith is a geographer and researcher, originally from Florida, now based in California.