And after we walk

in the midday sun, the yellow drifting dust,

fingers threaded, stargazing laced

in every step, our perishable escape.

And after I decide instead we should take a bus

because the buses that carry you go only to school

and we sit, bumping hips, thighs, hopes

we tether in silent pledge

while your smile pours into mine

as you tell me your favorites —

yellow, chicken and chips, math and science

— announce you will become an engineer,

say “I want to live where you live.”

And after the bus stops, and we spill

our clasped limbs into the sweltry air, the hungry minutes,

stroll to the breads, pastries, ice cream at the bakery

where you choose strawberry, raise spoonfuls

to my mouth as we amble on, ask

if I love God, sing “God is good,” your eyes

a bright wing, a breathing ache

upholding every note.

And after we browse the shop nearby

and you find a woven bracelet, a necklace

with a green glass pendant — shape of a heart, a future

memory that turns us to where we began.

And after you tell me you will never

take that necklace off, “never ever”

stray from this truth and I draw your body

under my arm, kiss your brow, your cheek,

hear your stacked-high “stay,”

and we walk on, slowly, slower,

“please” a wilderness prayer, a teardrop

sky, a wish that falls

from the bone.

(for Jesca)