by Crystal Taylor

Sheetrock

They fought. We flew.
Love: two sisters whispering
secrets, safe on the other side
of the wall where he left

his boots dusted with chalk.
After he hung the sheetrock,
he managed a semi-straight line
along a lamp-lit sidewalk,

returned long after the table
had been cleared.
We waited it out, wound our brown hair
into long braids, bound them together.

She covered my ears
when they configured phrases
that began with the letter F.
She thought I couldn’t hear.

It didn’t hurt to let her believe.

***

Particulate Matter

I hadn’t seen a day in years,
a dawn, in decades.
But today, I chose to open the shutters,
to see beyond my eyes’ own floaters.

I forgot how particles of dust
spin specks like silver planets,
attach themselves to fibers
that spiral like galaxies on a plane

where parties are thrown,
where dresses and makeup are worn.

Photo by Rana Mia on Unsplash