starts with soft snores.
thunder small enough
to be kept in jars.
i know what it’s like to be laying
next to you memorizing
your breath, so i can tease
you about it and we can laugh
together in the morning.
is that love? is it love when
you tease me about my clumsiness?
at this point, you have stopped
snoring. somewhere there is fire.
somewhere someone is hurting.
tonight, it is not us. tonight,
we are listening to the sirens
fade. tonight, they carry
their news somewhere else
and love is a little more urgent
when the background music is sirens.
—José Olivarez, Poet
I've never seen this poem before, and I doubt I'll ever see it again unless it's archived forever in pinkgingerale