born through damp clouds
in a dirigible inflated with hydrogen
hopes. We soared recklessly.
One cinder from your cigarette
could ignite us. We held our breath
for the match, savoring our mortality
like peppermints. But there was no spark,
no flame, no brilliance as we descended
and collapsed into the icy landscape
of our bed. We pull the quilt tight
to our chins and huddle against the snowdraft
creeping through our still open window.
Benjamin Klas lives in Minnesota with his partner and their son. He spends his days block printing, playing the ukulele, parenting, and writing, although not necessarily in that order. His works have appeared in a handful of literary magazines and an anthology of queer writers.