The sky shed its way to night,
one star, four, then five --
they counted from the porch step

as fireflies streaked the field
with impossible light.
(You mean, you miss her,

your eyes burned with life too,
but it was sacrificed to the sunrise
as all such light is meant to.) 

There were things to question:
whether overhead birds in truth
were bats and was the sky even

a sky or just another hall
in our lives and what would happen
the next morning when they rose

not as one but two. 
But there was no doubting how
one body fell into the frame

of the other like a word
into its meaning, a gift
into the tissue of its box,

or the way once the screen door
was latched and stairs were climbed,
I had to lean against

the doorframe to keep from falling
when I saw you
on your side asleep-

I was so alive
I had to grip the wood
to watch you breathe.

Erica Adler
ERICA ADLER graduated from Sarah Lawrence College in 2001, where she received the the Jean Goldschmidt Kempton scholarship (1998) and the Stanley and Evelyn Lipkin Prize for Poetry (2001). She is currently two years through a Clinical Psychology Psy.D program at Yeshiva University.
The Adirondack Review
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book AwardThe St. Lawrence Book Award
The St. Lawrence Book Award