Misplaced December
by Elizabeth Bruso
The house was a ship with no shadow.
We gathered upon screens and laughed at lag.
The distance was more than miles; through glass,
I watched the familiar sun set on the same patio.
I misplaced December.
The color was not wonder, but a routine.
Days unmeasured, no bells, same dishes redone;
It felt like one endless October.
I looked between the couch cushions.
I couldn’t remember how to move ahead,
So many feelings left unsaid.
My mind remembered the quiet over the friction.
Inside my throat, a screen I built;
Through the pane, I talk, still.