December

December
By Beth Cortez-Neavel
And I looked up at the moon through the alley and the black fire escapes dripping frozen from the last three days of rain
And you bent your neck down and hunched your shoulders your thin-soled cheap shoes breaking at the ice left in puddles on the dirty caking tar
And it was night and we walked with your big steps and my bounces through frozen fall-leaf fresh breaths and soft white lamplight
And the ducks swam upstream through the cold toward the bridge where you kissed my nose because they thought we had food
And it was one a. m. in December and we could see the stars in Boston.