How Easy the Cold Sky

How slow the monsoon,
as though something

in the town of our skin  

said it could stay dirty,

would not drown neatly,

would not fold like a gray cloud.

So we swore to never hurt,

and later, to never talk again

about the sour milk

I kept on the stove.

Remember those damp minutes,     

how slippery an ending

how easy the cold sky,

my husband with blue eyes was dead.

Philomena Amalfitano is a Sicilian writer, artist, and violist based in New York. Connect with her on Instagram at PhilomenasPalette.