Estrella House Publishing

Johanna E. Hall

it rained this year on the fourth of july
and while i don't like reading into things, it was like
the earth had to nourish the scorched earth
of what we've made here. except
it was just rain, of course.

the other day i found a hair from my lover
tangled in my rosary beads.
which doesn't mean anything but i almost didn't
throw it away, almost prayed over it,
almost curled it into a victorian locket
and wore it for the rest of my life.
i didn't, though.

but sometimes when i'm happy it feels
the way going down a hill feels
when you know you'll have to
climb up it again later, or
the way thursday the twelfth feels,
realizing you haven't appeased
your ghosts. only sometimes, though.
mostly it's just happy—

so i don't look at the sky during midnight walks
or in the mirror after crying
and i don't play out-of-tune pianos
and i don't assign meaning to
picked scabs or broken nails or
holding hands till we're sweaty.

the thing is, i don't have to.
it all means something
without me, the way summer is a verb
and what happens in the space
between us and the sun
we tried to name july.