Dead Stars

Poets and Writers - - Q & A -

Out here, there’s a bow­ing even the trees are do­ing.

Win­ter’s icy hand at the back of all of us.

Black bark, slick yel­low leaves, a kind of still­ness that feels so mute it’s al­most in an­other year.

I am a hearth of spi­ders these days: a nest of try­ing.

We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out

the trash, the rolling con­tain­ers a song of sub­ur­ban thun­der.

It’s al­most ro­man­tic as we ad­just the waxy blue

re­cy­cling bin un­til you say, Man, we should re­ally learn some new con­stel­la­tions.

And it’s true. We keep for­get­ting about An­tila, Cen­tarus,

Draco, Lac­erta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.

But mostly we’re for­get­ting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full

of dust and I wish to re­claim the ris­ing—

to lean in the spot­light of streetlight with you, to­ward

what’s larger within us, to­ward how we were born.

Look, we are not un­spec­tac­u­lar things.

We’ve come this far, sur­vived this much. What

would hap­pen if we de­cided to sur­vive more? To love harder?

What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.

No, to the ris­ing tides.

Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?

What would hap­pen if we used our bod­ies to bar­gain

for the safety of oth­ers, for earth,

if we de­clared a clean night, if we stopped be­ing ter­ri­fied,

if we launched our de­mands into the sky, made our­selves so big peo­ple could point to us with the ar­rows they make in their minds,

rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.