The Sky Didn’t Fall
By Betsy Brown
I saw the silvery tiny daylight moon
hanging just above the skyline,
over to the south where the bluff drops,
where it’s frozen and silent but not
quite dark yet. It reminded me of you.
Is it the questions that stay with us forever
or is it the love? When I think of you,
I wish I could fix things. I think of radios,
stars that shot and fell. Dented spotlights.
I think of ripped slips of paper and bent keys,
and I want to fix some of my old poems
that broke because they felt angry and shallow.
I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
I’d fix the clouds covering that stone white moon,
the strange frozen feeling of regret
soaking its way through layers of wool.
I still remember how you held umbrellas.
The casual generosity in your footsteps.
It’s hard to see things changing while they change,
something I notice like sleet, like black ice.
But it feels harder to admit that some things
never changed at all. Many years
it was like a blizzard inside my head,
relics of revenge, howled prayers.