The last night I owned the sky
after we packed the last box
and wiped the fingerprints off the
front door that had never been locked

I blinked against the lights of town
That led to the small empty house
where you can’t see the sun until it’s over the rooftops
and strange cars pass right outside the door.

“You’ll be so glad you’re in town,”
she says, dismissing my grief
with a twist of her wrist.
“You won’t have to do all that driving.”

I stare at her and nod.

I won’t have to drivepast that exact spot
William Clark was known to have stopped.
I won’t have to spend every afternoon channeling
Sacagawea carrying her baby across wild country.

I won’t have to drive with reality melting all around me
minivan leaving the ground
soaring up into snow dusted hills on a
painting hung by cosmic hands.

The last night I owned the sky
I stood next to the loaded truck and
reached out to run my fingers through the
Milky Way.

Halfway down the dark gravel driveway
lined with wooden horse fence
I can’t see the road through the memories.
He touches my arm and asks if I’d like him to drive.

Meeting him at the back of the truck
where the children can’t see
I catch his shirt and lean into him as if I could
push on his chest hard enough to stop destiny.