I've never seen my parents kiss or try to be the silver dollars in each other's pocket. In one photo they're on a green loveseat— the plastic cover looks sweaty to touch. Dad is standing to the side, afro- sheen bright as paint, mouth curved to sing something alive. My Mom is seated, brown legs crossed and bare. Clasping hands they hold close those disappearing things— slow dancing to Marvin's mercy mercy me a mumbling river a blue patchwork quilt its ends ragged to touch and a bowl of honey dew melon saved for midnight when the kids are asleep. Did they ever touch like bathwater on ankles or whisper thoughts so hot only the dust could hear? I try to imagine them smitten past the slammed doors past the obsidian quiet to side glances and half-speak, but maybe it only happened once in a South Carolina grove where only the moon could see.