aubade

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.