Aurora

At 1:30 am you yelled
from the bottom of the stairs
in an Idaho countryside airbnb
to get out of bed.
Hurry.
Look up at the sky.

The only thing in reach
to cover me was the hooded
sweater I got you for
Christmas, so I pulled
it over my sleepy eyes,
raced to meet you
at the yellow door.

And there it was,
an alien sky, turquoise green
and magenta like black-lit coral.
Northern lights from
a rare solar storm making
their way to us – as if to say,

a storm is also
beautiful.
Here, remember
the colors that
come in the after.

So we grounded our feet there,
in a driveway that wasn’t
our own – a pasture
of cattle in front of us
on a road lined
with prairie grass
so green it could
have been sea moss.

You stood behind me,
wrapped your arms
around my body like a prayer,
so we could thank the sun
for becoming so angry,
we forgot we ever could be.