Etched

That day,
You were carved into the sky
blossoming and black
and acrid.

Around, the people milled about
picked flowers
slipped them into their daughters' hair.
They didn't notice you rising heavenward
in great and powerful plumes.
They haggled over bread,
instead, in coarse and native tonge.

But you,
You were tattooed into that sky,
Something the sky would remember forever,
embarrassed,
as if you were a rash decision,
and ex-lover's name imprinted on his arm.
The sky hides you behind his back,
murmuring, "It's nothing."
Rolling up his blue sleeves.

But it's too late.
I've seen.
And to me, your face is always
carved into the sky.




(Jeez, Abbie, we're a cheerful lot.)