The sky is a normal color almost.
Three days ago a cloud slid over it
like a strange tongue,
green, I was sure,
like everything else.
The money we burned for heat;
our skin.
Does your voice still work?
I remember when the first shining shell
pierced the atmosphere -
How you muttered "earthquake weather."
Your lips started cracking when the television
died.
They'll take me first. I keep glancing
in the mirror:
my coccyx.
I touch its scales, thinking
you might find it
impressive when it's done growing
if they keep us together