After the coffee beans settle in the filter and
breathing comes easier, she sits next to me on the stars,
cup in her hands. She swirls it slowly and asks me,
"Did you just figure it out?" We watch pieces of rock
evaporate in the atmosphere and I say, "No. I've known
for a while."

I grab her by the hand and we
glide along the edge of the moon while her
hair spins freely and her eyes are finding the distance.

I will let her go soon, and she will learn, but now,
Jupiter pulls us into its red storms and I
keep hold.

Her coffee has grown cold in the cup,
making a deep brown ring on the sides, and it will
never scrub off. Jupiter spits us out and we run along
Orion's pink belt. I bypass galaxies just ahead of her,
pausing only to catch my breath as she catches up to me.

Quiet still, she passes me on her way to the kitchen to
refill her cup, and while she's gone, I compose myself,
silently floating among the meteors
'til she takes my hand this time, looping me through her
unnerve while she sits next to me.

Her hands are vein-mazes.
I watch them clutch her coffee cup again –
withered hands, working hands, worn hands, white hands,
never-ending hands, worried-Catholic-mother hands,
Oh-god-those-are-her-hands
holding my hands and crying behind the steering wheel hands,
"Mom-I'm-Fine-I-Promise" hands;
she's-putting-in-70-hours-a-week-for-us hands,
waking up at 4am to run 6 miles every single day hands,
oatmeal with blueberries for breakfast hands.

And my hands are vein-mazes too
and I can feel her hands on mine
and we say no words.

We just sit on the stars,
and she drinks her coffee
as Earth orbits by.