i think i remember a reckless place.
clover under our shoes, the gentle notes of a violin
strung from the trees like fairy lights.
i could smell salt, and empty shelves,
fresh paint—i was helping you move out,
yes, your mementos encased in cardboard.
ankle-deep in slush, i watched the other boys
crawl from their snow angels, their boots
carving furrows into the lightness.
the violin sleeps in the closet
of my childhood bedroom.
i found the bow strung through the window,
the backdrop singed of all its light
Jess(i)e Marino is a queer, autistic poet who writes and studies at Kenyon College. They are published in The Full Spectrum, Barton College’s Crucible, and Cicada, among others. They enjoy flowers, tea, and other soft things. As always, they are still learning.