When the clouds crawled in, we crept
from canvas covered civility, fracturing
two sides into three, four, more
maybe. We were the warning
grumbles before the flash, maybe nothing
to worry about, just whispers. Just a crack
through common cause, ground,
enemy. We fell when darkness did.
You broke the first promise, I lost track
after that. We tore, tumultuous;
the world still and shaded, unconcerned.
You tried to pose as part of it, but it knew
we were intruders, unmistakable, obvious,
oblivious. I shot when you strayed;
the gun hit my chest, metal on medal.
If it echoed, I was the only one
who heard. If it didn’t, I was still
the only one, ending on a whisper
to the clouds, coward.
The moon didn’t want to watch.
a
Hannah Zerai is a writer from the Eastern Shore of Maryland. She spends most of her time managing chronic illness, and bouncing between multitudinous creative projects.
© 2021, Hannah Zerai
Halfway Down the Stairs 