The night before we left
Iowa, we walked
to the cemetery.
You wanted to go all
week because you’d read
about the black angel, that
she’d kill you, so you wanted
to kiss her. You said we could write
about it because
all poems are about love
and death you said and at
the cemetery we’d get both so okay,
here I am. What I’m trying
to tell you: there
were lots of fireflies that night.
You tried and failed to catch one.
was out and flattening
the grass; so much humidity
I held in my arms like a tombstone.
When we got to the cemetery, walked
quietly around the gate, quiet,
or the neighbors
might call the police, we found
the angel. You kissed
her left knee, I kissed
nothing, someone started reading
a James Tate poem. I don’t remember its name
but what I do
know is that, as we moved
around her feet, we were
tradition, congregating summer after humid
Isabel Prioleau lives in Charleston, South Carolina. She interns for The Adroit Journal, and you can find her most recent work in The Post and Courier. Isabel was an attendee of the 2018 Juniper Institute for Young Writers and the 2019 Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, and is a member of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program’s 2020 cohort.