White Sky, High

There’s something
about a sky like this.

Your mother’s clean cloth
laid out like a map –
it’s lace landmarks, hazy.

A ghostly flag, hung half mast,
to the four corners of
your eyes, pinned with pearl.

We walk into it, and it’s as if
our heels lift upwards –
blown far, like paper or steam

and I feel buoyant beside you, as
we walk lighter, lean in together
towards a sky like this.