Sunday morning. In another world it’s so ordinary: egg yolks and the mountain in the window. December roses, steam from the shower, serious coffee warming up on the stove. Birds calling, San Francisco. The smell of the ocean in our clothes. Your smell, soaked into the collar of yesterday’s sweater, what I pulled on in the dawn and cold. Before busying myself with the raspberries and sugar. The half-conscious dog. Our own apples to slice into pieces. My hand a white flag at the back of your neck, the hours like a whole movie, and weren't we only at the beginning. Slow lifetimes before us. Immortality. A new moon. Never mind your lips are turning blue. Never mind the stars behind the mountain, obscured by daylight and from this world, relentless. They have to betray us. It is too hard to pretend the future could have been anything other than what I ended up with: your shadow, your star cloistered in the sculpted wall, at the limit. Where nothing ever happens. You would never get to grow old.
Sasha Leshner is a poet and editor from Brooklyn New York. Her works is drawn from the intersections of art, memory, and the possibilities of their articulations. She has an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University and a BA from NYU. Her work has been published and is forthcoming from ExPat Press, (M)othertongues Magazine, Pour Vida Zine, west 10th magazine, 89+ and the luma foundation, and others. Her poems are dedicated to the beloveds who beat her to the next world.