The moon is an arc of silver held in the dark
Fingers of the trees on Highland Avenue
I thought of you tonight
Your vibrant body
I may not touch again
I woke from sleep
Remembering your cries
Images of you flashed through my mind
You with your warlike stance
Holding out your hand for me to take
You beside me in the car, jaw set, eyes burning
Telling me not to smoke
Not to dream of alcoholic dykes
Who would hold me as you would not
The decency and resolve glowing in your eyes
I can neither hold you close nor let you go
—Elizabeth Romero