Scion G. K. Hansen You didn’t make eye contact with anyone; not me and not our lover; though both of us were standing by you. You watched the Earth, the slow retreat, the clouds over the ocean that last year we three leapt into, yelling with the saline chill, last child of an empty planet—our lover put hir lips against your neck. You did not move. Your fingers slow against the glass, triple-thick to guard from vacuum. If someone had asked last week, last month if I would miss the world I’d’ve said that I was taking what I needed with me—your smile, the curve of hir neck. And the Earth would not have been enough without them, but can we be human and in love without the ground tilting beneath our feet, the sky holding us in like a father holds his infant son, head bowed over tiny fists that reach and curl?
G. K. Hansen lives in Somerville, MA, with a cat, a partner, and so many books that there are several foot-high piles of them on her side of the bed because they won’t fit on the shelves. She mostly writes about horses and queerness, and was the 2012 winner of the annual Boston Book Festival writing prompt contest.
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