It was you and me, and
Baby Girl makes three.

You moved us to that northeastern shore
in February so you could die.
But dead was already there
in the ripping wind and Baby Girl
was five thousand years beyond five.

How long will we stay, she asked.

You didn’t answer,
so I didn’t answer.

I bought a week’s worth of groceries
at the inland market where
the gas furnace droned and
the cashier’s face said:
I don’t know you.

This off-season tourist town,
she was an aged ingénue
whom we’d caught
barefaced and sober
on a Sunday morning.

about the author
After graduating from Wright State University with a degree in English, Kris Cross began her writing career as a journalist and editor, earning AP awards in writing and design. Currently, she serves as a public relations director in higher education. She and her two children, Cyrus and Harper, live in Greenfield, Ohio.