Each morning, the same memory down
            my throat. The full moon nothing more
than a backlight for your tears,
            your penny loafers trembling on the railing,
slick with ice. I was supposed to tell
            you about your mother kneeling in her
requiem clothes, each full pew
            shuddering as one. Or the only memory
we shared—the dingy bathroom,
            cheek sliced on the edge of the sink to avoid
this, the last high. The words
            slackened in my throat. Mind left to reconcile.
Who would pull her back into
            the nightmare, who would want that?
After midnight, shadows dance
            in the margins of the windshield. White line
disappears down the center, the only
            certain thing. Hours later, the shiver
that bites the horizon, bloodies
            its lip. The last moments of a lifetime,
left forever to speculation.
            The county line, another idle threshold.

Nikki Velletri is a high school student from Massachusetts. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and can be found in Words Dance.

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