By Nicole Dufalla
I’m sorry I don’t know you. I’m sorry I don’t know how your strange, smooth sounds
slip across my lips or how your shapes look pressed in the curves of our family moon.
Your whispers filled stomachs with remembered bread, reflected on dustless floors. Your
shadows—backdrop static against his army heroism, his winding smuggler’s paths, his
travels beyond mountains. He. Without you. Without us. Raindrops in puddles, feeling
wet streaks left across bowing leaves above. Like mustangs sense mountains, wishing
they could run together.
About the Author
Nicole Dufalla is a poet living in Virginia where she enjoys writing and getting lost outside. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Poetry South, the Chautauqua Institute Journal, Willows Wept Review, Sky Island Journal, and elsewhere online.