Soles on the Eaves
The roof remembers August,
warm where your skin touches,
and it’s not gravity that weighs
so heavily on your sunken chest,
but the way the stars are flung
against the whole of the universe.
How bottles have shattered
right at your young bare feet.
The way the pool lights dance
in the pink bough of Crepe Myrtles
and reminds you of the hall light
creeping beneath your door.
The silence tonight echoes every calm
before all the storms you’ve braved.
Then you can hear slanted footsteps.
Your brother lays out with you.
He understands what you can’t say.
He plays his favorite — Melancholy Hill.
You make each other promises
and you hold hands to stay grounded.
You both start to cry remembering
what you learned when you were too young
to know that tears don’t fall — they pool
when you’re laying down.
Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts
