The things that saved us are the same as they ever were.
The spring irises glazed with rain, puppies learning to walk,
the feel of his hands in yours or his skin,
or your own skin, soft against the bedsheets.
The way water cools the throat and slakes thirst,
or how a good meal softens and rounds the belly,
the way laughter comes like an unexpected eruption,
even, and perhaps most of all, the way tears stream
and taste of the ocean, of everything before and to come.
These are small things, but they are true,
the things of a life that finds its way always,
as the daisy in the sidewalk crack,
or the sunset rose gold over the dark city skyline,
the way your chest continues to rise and fall,
worthy of all it longs for and belongs to.
Abby Bland (she/her) lives and writes in Kansas City, Missouri. Her work has appeared in Ghost City Review, What Are Birds? and elsewhere. Her chapbook The Odds Against a Starry Cosmos was published in November 2020 with Perennial Press. You can follow her on Instagram and Twitter @applestoabby.