5: it . . . tears pleasantly at my skin

until the storm hit and our hands parted
remembering how I used to think about the boy
who posted his Ciudad Juarez sister nearby the car

saying “five dollars American”

and we thought about it and wondered if the boy
would watch

now it’s something quaint
in the hard wind as a break of siding
came twirling at us like a cutting blade
and we felt the wind burst breastwise
and lift us higher

the last thing I heard was

“We wanted to fly, fly once
birdwise, afeather, the rain in our ears and eyes
can you feel the sun on your back?”

the last thing I heard him say
and underneath that stupid gray monster
went on sweeping up the building windows,
flipping through the boring photographs everyone takes,
grasping at the fingers that learned
only yesterday how to hold a ball
or another person’s hand

and me blowing above it all
wondering where I might fall