Where the Sky Is

After the storm, Zach and the girls sprawled on the dock,

legs disappeared in the lake. They were arguing about where the sky is.

I watched for a while at the edge of the water—

even in the dark, you could see to the bottom. Maddy gathered the air

around her, arms outstretched to show them: it’s here. it’s here. we are in the sky,

which sent Zach and Makayla into fits. They laughed so hard they cried

and the stars came out, and I watched, just beyond the path,

closing one eye and then the other, volleying that ancient light

between hemispheres. They talked about childhood beliefs, like god,

how when it rained that meant he was eating watermelon,

and Makayla said, no, that means god is watering the earth,

not eating,  you goon, and how Zach thought that when he played

Nevermind Kurt picked up his guitar and performed,

so he could hear “Lithium” on command, in bed, headphones on,

looking at the night-glow constellations on his ceiling, and love,

which they believed was inevitable, like dinner at six or pollen in spring,

something attached to time that belonged to everyone, but especially

to them, and I could tell, even from a distance, they still believed it.