At least you still have one left they say
& my body unfurls slow a locust leaving behind its casing.
I cling to the shape of the trees even when I’m only shell.
Stop every block with the stroller to check for air.
They’re barely human at that age they say &
I remember the neighborhood shrieking in summer,
kids dripping popsicles the color of blood onto hot concrete
& wondering how his voice would cut the air
when I finally heard it. You can always have another
one they say as though I can swallow the clouds
to make thicker light. He’s in a better place they say &
I try to conjure the sky what it used to look like.
Someone tore out the blue. The storm livewires my chest.
The naked branches unfold their middle fingers.
They’re all waiting for me to speak.
Kate Stoltzfus is a writer and editor living in Washington, D.C. Her work has appeared in Arcturus, The Journal, Atticus Review, Education Week, the Chronicle of Higher Education, and elsewhere. Connect with her via email at kate.stoltz@hotmail.com or @kate.stoltz on Instagram.