THE SKY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU, IT'S TIRED OF FEELING JUDGED
Kelli Russell Agodon

for EB

Because you complained that poets weren’t telling you anything
new about sky, I slit open its white wrists with a kite and made the fog
explain itself. When the sky didn’t know how to react, I spoke
to the honeymooners on the beach, We’ve been married for 12 tweets.
And the sky rolled its one yellow eye. We are all dying here.
The ozone layer has gone goth and is listening to Morrissey.
​All the middle-age women are sucking on something
that will spark joy. Be wine. Be joints. Be the places
where pleasure lives between its heartbeats. It doesn’t matter
if we’re cranky because we can’t get it right. The sky is reflecting
in the pond, in the eyes of a girl who wears her Starry Night
sweatshirt as she floats between stargrass. So meta. We were young
once and we begged for something more, the moon like a locket
we could pop open, the stars like the fireflies we couldn’t catch
in a dark swamp, but when morning came and we knew
we made it, overnight after the nice girls had gone home,
the blue blanket tucked under our thighs, and jeans tossed
against some picnic table—there was no language other than fabric,
a belief we’d be okay in a pocket, a galaxy of denim blue.