Remember butterscotch days and
flipflops on tacky pavement?
When pitch-high laughter
and the cadence of your mother
scattered our fingers?
That time.
When mismatched pattern and
jigsaw blocks spoke faintly of our claim-
that granny’s fancy seam-work was not enough
to stitch us together.
That time.
Remember when back routes were all we knew?
When muscadine wine
made tongues braver than words?
That time.
Two fragile encounters
we lay stock still under the covers
hearts beating so loudly they woke the shadows.
That time.
It was not love but a lullaby.