Counting Stars
Meagan Noel Hart
I count the stars because I know they’re real.
What else is real?
Your body under the covers? The cash on the floor?
I exit through the window.
The lake doesn’t shimmer when the sky is a deep dark pool; the darknesses merge as if I could walk across the water and climb to the stars.
Monday
You count our funds. We trust cash because we can see it. Cards lead to squander.
You smile, hand me a five. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
I always do.
Neither of us mentions the increasing number of notices. Unopened, you stack them, one crisp white death-threat on top of another. “There’s always the van,” you say.
We kiss. You leave.
I’m supposed to job hunt, but after two years, hocking our possessions seems my only viable skill. Instead I walk to the
