over and over and over

Tho Nguyen

again we are the last ones reaching

for this cotton-candy sky, pinks and blues 

sweet and soft like taffy on our tongues.

we watch the colors bloom and flower

the warmth of a mother’s arms, and for now

we are sacred, untouchable. we watch the world

from a world away: earth a newborn playing 

with its trees and clouds and rivers. waves of red and yellow 

on the soft purple sand, flowers stars of orange and white.

we wait in reverence for these things to extinguish. 

the colors to cool and harden,

the last dark robbing this land of light.

and in the meantime, life unfolds

memories: nesting dolls, one after the other

after the other. a summer of treehouses and trampolines,

thumb splinters and tie-dye. hula-hoops iridescent

as we learned how to birth our own orbits.

a year of football games and fundraisers,

pigskin and pep rallies chalked in purple and gold.

all the shouting and screaming and cheering

teaching us to live without fearing our shadows.

and today, the last day on earth teaching us

we can be anything. our arms a pair of ampersands:

no ending or beginning in sight, only this long waiting

and the promise that you’ll meet me in the middle.

i’ll still remember you. this second. this minute. and

this day. and the next. and the next. and the

next. life is a series of ands, unimaginable infinity

linking one after the other after the other. something will happen

and then something else. and then this sky will fade into nothing

and we will be the last footstep on the sand, the one waiting

for redemption. when the tide sweeps our bodies away

i only hope our hearts remain.