When you got out of the car to hug me,
I was the only person on earth,
and my troubles slipped like paint
drips (in a bedroom, somewhere in Ohio).
It’s fresh outside. The white buds of a bush
can’t keep their eyes open and there might be
cloud consequences in the after-
noon. For now, my nails are red and my face is
peeling from sunburn. You’re out
of your red car with your arms around me
still. And I can’t shake the feeling
something’s wrong and you’re not telling.
But I don’t ask. I just wait for you
to break the silence.

– Rebecca Ferlotti

Note: This piece was previously published in the Cuyahoga County Public Library Poetry Anthology (2015)