by Crystal Silva
we bump over basement tile, toes stubbing
over grout grooves. sock-skating
while our tios pinball pool cues upstairs.
lips covered in egg-sweet crumbs gush
of some-days and one-days, when we’re big.
crouched behind green leather couches,
we hide from the night’s crawl, the looming
call to leave. two kisses times fourteen cheeks
goodbye. slump into the backseat. fall asleep
by the third pothole, all warmed through.
temples ricochet against the window slope.
the moon follows me home.
the moon follows you home,
cradled onto a shoulder, eyes squeezed
too-shut and tucked into bed.
it is now some day
and also one day.
you are under a different moon and
I am in the front seat, big.
I tuck myself into bed.
Crystal Silva is a senior at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill studying communication and studio art. Originally from Massachusetts, Crystal is the daughter of Portuguese immigrants, which informs much of her poetry. When not writing, you can find her developing in the darkroom, throwing pots, and doing improv.