Skyline With Iron & Nickel Coated Hands 

          “Asteroid could barrel into Earth on Valentine's Day in 23 years: NASA”

                    — Allie Griffin, New York Post. March 9, 2023.

The season throws a love party. I turn up in red & pretend I'm ravenous & desperate

for tulips. It's February 14, 2046, & the toad still croaks for a mate. I’ve worked out

my hands to get here. I am all over this supermarket's website searching for a perfect

souvenir for my date. Suddenly. I lost my buds; can't find sweetness in any of these

packages. The good news: beyond this blunt tongue, there's a spring for me. My thirst

winnows. I phone my lover in a timely reminder. She says, of all that matters, having

your face in my palms without asking first for your permission wraps my destiny

around your shoulder. I'm grateful you offer me your wings. I drop into freezing

rapids & emerge warm through the canyon rocks. Out here, all the road signs lead to

the venue of the date with my darling. For the first time, the sky pays close attention

to my schedule. On my way, the road widens for my comfort. My pace runs over the

city's bustles. Every car's honk unites into R&B songs blasting from decent speakers.

I'm enjoying this moment. The wages of hearty moments are in the littlest fun, well-

owned & lived. I'm owning this moment, until the sky out of envy hurls an asteroid

upon this place, creating a crater so wide, it swallows all of us; its iron hand coated

with nickel reaches for me. I'm blinking out, the deafening silence, so morbid, I can

already witness the future. It's February 14, 2076, I wake as an angel among aliens. I

phone my lover to make up for the aborted date, & she is stunned into numbness.

When she finally speaks, she says to me, your gust still smells like an anniversary

cake. At this moment, our moons merge & forever remain a heartbeat close.