By Melanny Eva Henson

Remember when

all us neighbors gathered

in your driveway,

for food and drinks and bonfire,

And our families were whole,

but we were broken?

There was comfort in the ritual,

the damp air embracing us

and the children screaming

in circles about the house.

It almost didn’t matter

that we cried late at night

while everyone slept.

And what right did we have

to look truth

square in the eyes like that,

Why couldn’t we just

take a sip of denial

like everyone else,

and put up our feet?

And remember when

that hawk landed

on the pitch of your roof,

and watched over us

as we were trying to be

the two women everyone thought we were?

She was trying to tell us

that we were not so alone,

but we couldn’t hear her

over the kids,

and the sizzle of meat on the grill.

And isn’t it funny

how someone can quietly

and discreetly

murder the family dog

but you end up risking it all

if you say it is dead?

And do you remember the night

in your new apartment

drinking beer and wine

and bitterness and hope

without any children?

Just two souls yearning

for we didn’t know what,

grieving over what we couldn’t

do or be,

and

finally

unfolding the truth,

beginning to press

the wrinkles.