For 48 Hours Poem by Donna Ialongo

for 48 hours
most collectively, you and i
(most significantly you)
were handed to our faces
the inevitability of those simplest of things.

your deciding became our
dreaded extra-collegiate word - responsibility.
the triteness of war, death, and living
were no longer the opening lines of a fairy tale,
but were attached titles to your last name.

i found i am too young to jump rope with purpose.
too young to fly and worry about exploding stars.
too young to sit under the dogwood with you
or chase a moth with a candle.