by Natalie Marino

That morning when the window
was so drenched with sun

we thought some things do last
forever, that our mouths

would not become
hard like bone.

Our red sleds rode
down  down  down

the slippery snow—
it was perfect

like California’s sweet
strawberries in winter.

Our bodies will remember
for us when we find our former

selves in the gray silence
of old photographs.

We will fill the empty spaces
with the loud colors of paper

marigolds.

Natalie Marino is a poet, physician, and mother. Her work appears in Barren Magazine, Capsule Stories, Dust Poetry Magazine, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, Leon Literary Review, Literary Mama, Moria Online, and elsewhere. She also reads poetry submissions for Bracken Magazine. She lives in California with her husband and two daughters.