Celestial Bodies
Derek Jackson

In the parking lot, two cops scanned for good times—burning. Katy and I sat tailgate down in conversation, and the sky darkened from purple to black. Black shadow smoked her brown eyes, and the earth’s shade left only a thumbnail of moonlight above the humming street lamp. “No smoking,” Katy said, as the wind lifted blonde wisps against the blackness and dead glow of stars—light from what was to what might be.