i’ve been lying here for so long
with grass peeking through my hips
and dust working into the gaps of my teeth.
the sky is so big and forgetful,
a place with no memory.
i wish i could be like that.
i hadn’t thought you meant it that time.
the swallow dives down, down, down
and never really hits the ground.
i suppose we had one last First, baby,
kept special in the sun-soaked spot,
in my overexposed skull.
you never visit like you promised.
maybe you thought i wouldn’t remember
but how could i not?
i am the gift you gave the open sky
with grit grinding my joints away,
and your love forever on my mind.
Sarah Hernandez is a Texas-born writer and lover of literature. Her main median is poetry, and her sources of inspiration are the forces of nature and womanhood. Her hobbies include hiking, cooking, and witchcraft and her work has previously appeared in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. She lives in Austin, Texas.