Don’t Look Up

Bristles of green put cracks in my eggshell heart.

“Do you see it?” you ask, sipping on foam

and heat in midsummer.

I twist blades in my palm and

don’t look up.

“Too bright,” I say.

You swat at the air,

put weight on your elbows.

You’re long, eyes shut towards the sun,

spread out like a praying mantis on its back.

“Mmm,” you say.

Did you see me as I went under?

Fingertips first, forearms, freckles.

My breasts were gone before you

asked if I wanted to get lunch in the city.

I tried to reach you but I was

too tangled in roots and the dark damp of us.

I think you called my name when my

ears were being packed with dirt.

“Mmm.” I said, maybe to myself.

“Maybe I’ll see it tomorrow.”