We crack the sun to see
if it’s full of canaries or taxi cars
moving so fast as to make something like
daylight.
It is not.
We pack up the last of the clouds
which will hang over our heads.
If one day she asks about the moment
that we knew,
we will have rain stored up to pour
out our eyes like
happiness.
We will not say “you.”
We leave the smog to swallow the space
that we had been filling since
the year you asked to see a city skyline.
We trade it for the fog that makes up
a life.
We will never forget
our bodies lined up with each other
waiting to burst into patterns
crisscrossing the night sky,
trying to outshine the stars.
Cara Bellucci is a Creative Writing major at SUNY Purchase. From humble beginnings in a Pooh Bear journal, her poetry has worked hard to make its public debut in Mason’s Road. The deep, melancholy words float to her from some outer realm while she sits at barbeques with her wonderful parents, siblings, and extended family that crack jokes and make great food. She is happy to hang on to its coattails while she herself does battle with Long Island humidity and reads her way to being Rory Gilmore.
Causeway Lit 