On the eighth floor, you can blink and the next
month’s bills are due. Days can go by. You can
sing to yourself: he will be, won’t he? And
he will be. Will or won’t the dying star

or summer shroud you, leave you, burn, you’ll be
the one to cry, won’t you? NASA will count
your ultraviolet wingspan in lightyears,
ashy blond and dusty hydrogen. Won’t

you, will you, you’ll love what the open road
of love is like: new shapes, letting the days
go by. New shapes, June, sunshowers, July,
rhinestones, fishhooks, open eyes. In the long

tail of summer and the constellation
Scorpius, he will be, won’t he. Mountain
laurel, seachange and keychange, and he will
be, won’t he, never should have, butterflies.


Meghan Kemp-Gee lives between Vancouver BC and Fredericton NB. She writes poetry, comics, stories, and scripts of all kinds. Her poetry collection, The Animal in the Room, is forthcoming from Coach House Books in 2023. She also co-created Contested Strip, the world’s best comic about ultimate frisbee. You can find her on Twitter @MadMollGreen.