by Devon Neal 

How Much Longer

This is the moment before embarrassment
visits, standing on the edge of every crowd,

eyes wide, watching. This is the moment before
walls and boundaries, shields and retorts,

when every person you meet is a mirror.
This is the moment when every thought

is a word, when the static tangle of morning
hair is worn until nighttime, when socks

don’t match, not even shoes, when the outfit
from yesterday, stained with lunch shrapnel

is still worn without a thought. This is a moment
when it’s all energy and fun, before comments

from others burrow in and plant their seeds
and everyone is watching even when everyone

is gone. How much longer will I kiss her
before bed, read her that Halloween book

in the lamplight in mid-September?
How much longer until the stage lights

shine from somewhere and she has to prepare
the person she wants to portray? How much

longer until the girl I know, ruffled in morning light,
can only be seen behind closed doors,

or in moments just before sleep,
places and times where the eyesight of the world

can’t reach?

***

Deep Water

That summer every night fluttered
with cricket legs and star shine.
We exchanged sleeps, your bed
or mine, driving after late shifts
with the car A/C fighting the thick air.
We were new to each other, discovering,
and I told you all I wanted was to fall asleep
with you as a storm rolled in. Saturday,
after mandatory overtime, we went to my place,
arms around each other as the early
afternoon sun made a gold frame
around the bedsheet covering my window.
I turned on that Cure song, the one
you found, the one with the thunderstorm,
then put my face in your hair
and ignored the light.

Photo by Pang P on Unsplash