Synchronized Formation, Deirdre Murphy
I hang from the last brick of August, and cold is tolling. I don’t hear you, but I remember your summer breath, and you still feel like the softest blue behind my eyes.
The months we spent together sit catty-corner: June and July. July, bent in half, turns to face the other side of black space. Black hums, like the night under the chalk moon when we sweated and swatted at ants. I felt you for the first time, your blue warmth and dimpled back. June woke with us, orange and fiery on our skin.
We used to hike for miles, tripping over bulging roots, their viola singing. We held hands when we could but had better balance if our arms steadied just our own bodies. September slants a pointed edge at my chest. Rain throbs. I see your voice ripple in the humming black of sleep. Sweating, I look down to find your blue has traced all of the lines in my hands. I look like a river. I know I can’t cross.