We are only pneumatic tubes shuttling information.
Only the question information leaves, the shadow of something passing. Look up—empty sky.
The question left by the buttermilk scar along a girl’s knee where nurses swabbed the wound free of gravel and sewed up her imagined future.
We are only the question: when the fog lifts will there be snow on the mountain?
The question of the palm turned and not its meaning: plea, prayer, offering, or reaching to feel if snow is falling.
Only the palm turned waiting for someone to reach across the distance from bed to chair.
Only the creak of the chair and the tick tick of moons dropping from bag to tube.
We are only the crunching of gravel as a car turns into the drive, headlights sweeping over two girls tangled in shadows.
We are only the waiting for the car door to open.
Waiting like the rabbit waits in the light the motion detector clicked on.
We are only the ruffle of fur above her heart as she waits for the dark so
she can scatter.
We are only the grip turning a girl’s hand white as she yanks away in the light.
Only the burn of nerves as the blood returns, the itch of it, hot as guilt.