by Patricia Russo

That last day
we still believed in making memories

regardless of how long
we would be able to keep them

We bought fruit in plastic tubs
from a woman inching a cart across the gravel

sat on our jackets
in the shade of a moss-clad oak

talked about astronomy
until you started to cry

Now I can’t remember

if it was dark matter you were sad about
or the dead volcanos on Mars

If the grass was wet
or only cold

If I cut my finger there
or in the thudding panic later

The strawberries were juicy

but sour.

Image via Pexels by Engin Akyurt