We should have been to Brainerd & back by now, but all the trips we had planned this year are cancelled. A friend called to tell you she is moving to Austin, so, of course you spent Monday crying - you miss the lightness of herons lifting off into rain from a grassy riverbank. Don’t we all. I broke down during my biweekly run to Target when I saw someone buying only dresses & milk. Back home you tell me it's ok. I’m not sure if you mean my frustration or the world’s recklessness; it doesn’t matter. As you rub my back I realize it’s probably both. Your sister sent us an escape room in the mail themed after the world's fair in Chicago with this big ferris wheel on the cover of the box & damnit what I wouldn’t give to be on the SkyRide at the State Fair in August with a beer, staring over the intersection of Judson & Nelson as crowds below weave like streams without sources. It’s all chaos. The way I love you like oak trees in summer. How dust could carry us away & most days I wouldn’t mind; these flowers outside our window suddenly blooming red. We’re getting through this together. Remember herons understand the anatomy of clouds, escaping shadows, & building homes from the decay others overlooked.
Steve Merino (he/him/his) is a poet from Saint Paul, MN. His previous work can be found in or is forthcoming to Ghost City Review, Mineral Lit Mag, Oyster River Pages, Feral Journal, littledeathlit, and You Flower / You Feast. Find him on Twitter: @steve_merino.