by Karla Daly

Each night, we came home to the city
from bleached office parks,

home to the perfume of plaster,
the howling of zoo animals.

The clock on the stove had never worked.
No family photos, no calendar on the wall.

Maybe we’d have a drink on the ironing board
set on its lowest rung,

make a meal of sourdough bread
and Kalamata olives.

By the naked window,
we laughed off the day’s slights,

my hand on your shoulder,
your fingers in my hair.

We were creating our own exoplanet:
our secret cat, our moon.

Cars below left comet tails.
Windows across the street: star cluster.

Then the stove clock started keeping time,
so we moved.


Photo by Andrew Neel via Pexels