A year from now we’ll be wiser because of this.
We’ll have melted back into our original molds:
high fives and cheek kisses and shared milkshake
straws. It’ll be a springtime tailor-made for loving,
weaving dandelion stems together, fashioning crowns
to place around the heads of those we hold tender.
I’ll squeeze your hand a little tighter, call the act of
doing so privilege, complete and total privilege—
for to have is one thing but to hold is another, how
the latter can too easily crumble under the weight
of fear. We watched it happen. We were stolen from.
A year from now we’ll remember those strange days
of forbidden hand-in-hand, that time we kept flowers
rooted in the soil because there were no crowns to make
that season, as if springtime never came at all. Privilege,
we’ll say, all of this beauty privilege, for there was a time we
almost lost it, but here it is, a world to hold, and each other.