by Vanessa Johnson
Don’t tell mother, but that night
we were pitching
our tents in the dark.
Tent rods clicked and slid
through loops by the moon.
Mesquite tangled in the stars.
Unseen amphibian repetition
uttered. I spat toothpaste
into the soil as your socks swallowed
my feet. Your log legs did not burn
next to mine. You slept deeper than
the ground we were on.
I dug myself further against the sleeping
bag, held your back, covered
you with a layer of warm green,
and waited for the sun.