By: Amy Smith
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.
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