8 February, 2024
I PASSED MY EX ON CLAY STREET ON WEDNESDAY MORNING
and a tenderness swept over my skin for the man
who knew my thighs, all fathappy, in younger years.
We were good, ya know, sometimes.
And here he was oblivious to my observation—
for a swift, floating moment—we were alone again:
me watching, he not noticing. The thing
we once had, sinewtorn by vultures, briefly
parted the clouds. He sat in the sun.