Inside the iron gates, crepuscular shadows tongue from headstones, our feet listening, our hands holding the Academy Cemetery of Levine and Soto and we read them while sipping smoothies, drying in our swimwear, the hills this Sunday dead and gold.
She picks the milk from the shelf as I massage a sponge into the morning’s bowls. In the quiet,
I know she’s reading the expiration date while the garbage truck shirks from a distance. Faucet
hums closed and she says, “Babe, are you going to drink this?” It’s been a couple of weeks since
I opened it, dashed it over my cereal. “I think it’s still good. Leave it in there, I’ll drink it.” But
I know I won’t. Not until the thick and thin white have separated, not until it’s begun to expand,
not until she opens it, sniffs, proclaims, “You let it go bad, again” will I say, “I had to be sure.”