Our conversations were mostly breaths,
impatient ones that feared the other’s
voice would ever split the tethers that
bound us in nervous, melting hope.
My little chair smiles and offers me the
motherly star who lets rivers chase
down the hills to raise wheat and rice
that my thirst and hunger may end.
My little chair smiles and begs me to
lie down and sleep when the sun leaves,
deny my tongue any more honey,
but I’d again trek through the blizzard
if I could start from the warmth of a
rooftop kiss that binds me in a sun
and sings joy to the storm ahead.
—-
A general understaning of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town is requested but not required.
