About the author: Eve Kenneally is a Bostonian currently getting her MFA from the University of Montana. Interests include writing, walking, and whiskey.
The sky is swollen, overripe. I love when I get to melt the hours
to gold with you, rose gold, the rose of your wrist
on my neck. The shadows nudge the shrubs into foreign shapes –
a cliff, a cat. No, you didn’t tell me you’re going to Cincinnati next weekend.
Yes, I’m sure. (But you meant to, and isn’t that the same thing?)
No, I don’t mind that you didn’t ask me to come. We both know I don’t do well
in the cold.
I’m sorry I won’t let you get a cat. I think I’m afraid.
Don’t you know it would gut those chipmunks and leave them at your feet?