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 blue-eyed husband was dead.
Philomena Amalfitano is a Sicilian writer, artist, and violist based in New York. Connect with her on Instagram at PhilomenasPalette.