by Nicolette Ratz

     Braiding grass and gathering
     broken ceramic buried in the backyard with time.
     Coyotes roam the hillside.
     They do not mind the young women watching them.
     Oh, how we laughed like children!
     We always talked about what we’d make
     of the broken.
When I said, I forgive you,
I didn’t.
     Water lapping our beached feet
     forming eddies between us,
     crackled fire on the shore of a summer night.
     We made a game out of tossing hot coals
     and you held them so long
     before letting go.
     Are you still holding one?
     Swapping cigarettes like friends,
     we always talked about what we’d make
     of ourselves.
I do now.
     My chest unbraided. Down river
     from splintered youth—no wonder
     we set things on fire…
                         Ash to soil.
     Water swallowed into wild nothing.