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Posts Tagged ‘stars’

When Memories Come Back


 
 
I love when people share memories of you
I have forgotten. Like when your big sister
remembered the time we visited your aunt’s
new home, and you, six years old and unstoppable,
were entranced by the decorative glitter glued
to her walls, and while the rest of us were nearby
making food, you stood there in the hallway
and picked at the sparkles until there was a pile
of shine on the floor. “And she was so mad,”
remembers your sister. The memory glimmers
in me like the first stars at dusk, barely there,
but becoming more clear by the moment,
then shining and bright. Yes, that’s what it’s like when
old memories return. I get a shining sliver
of you back. Like finding some constellation
that was always there, I had just forgotten where
to look, and now it’s so present, so true,
I can use its light to navigate my nights.

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And I didn’t go buy fireworks today.
Not yesterday, either. Nor will
I buy them tomorrow because you
will not be here to light them.
I realize now what I loved about fireworks
was how much you loved them,
the way you brightened when the fuse was first lit,
the way you glowed near incandescent
as the sparks and colors fountained and flashed.
And rapt in your thrill, I would ooh and ahh.
This is how it is. We shape our lives
around the joys of those we love.
You found joy in the bang, the pop,
the squeal, the repeating boom.
I don’t love the noise. Don’t love
the Sulphury smell. Maybe this year,
your dad and I will sit outside
and watch the sparkle of unmoving stars—
this tradition truer to my own sense of joy.
Maybe a meteor will streak the sky.
If it does, I am sure I will ooh and ahh
the way we used to on the Fourth of July,
the way I still do on any given day
because, despite the ache of missing you,  
I’m still stunned by this life,
stunned by the things that bring joy in the dark.
Like the candles I burn. Like holding your dad’s hand.
Like the memory of you. Like stars.

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stripped of the coat of my story,
for a moment naked enough
to fit into the universe

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ornaments for the galaxy
between bare cottonwood branches
hung by what great hand, the stars

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I miss you, I say to the stars,
   The stars are not you,
     but always they seem to listen,
       as if what I have to say is important.
 
I miss you, I say again.
   The stars never talk back.
     Still, I listen for a response.
       When I say I miss you,
 
I mean I’ve barely begun to understand
   what missing you means.
     Though I live it every day.
       Though missing you infuses every breath.
 
Though missing you shapes me—
   especially at night when I’m alone
     and I find myself talking with stars.
       I miss you, I say to the stars.
 
I hear nothing in response.
   I let myself be cradled
     by that nothing.

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After the Film


 
 
We leave the desert flats of Australia
and the axe and the snakes and the flames
and walk into the quiet, starlit night
 
and become two characters in our own lives.
This is the part where the mother and daughter
lean into each other and walk extra close
 
so they can speak in tones so low
the audience can’t hear their words.
The camera follows them with a low angle tracking shot
 
focused on where their hands are joined,
then it tilts to the sky to end the scene
in an extremely wide shot where our characters
 
are barely a blip on the screen,
surrounded by infinite mystery,
the stars, the only lights.

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Leaning into the vastness
of the star drunk sky,
my heart a vehicle,
to my surprise
I heard a small click,
like the sound of a car door
opening,
and your voice,
Mom, hop in.
Let’s take a spin.

I startle, as if
waking from a dream,
heart pounding,
astonished to find you
in the driver’s seat
as you love to be, and me
just one yes away
from a joy ride
through the universe,
if only I can find
the door.

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I had imagined we’d see dozens of meteors

   streaming across the sky, streaking,

      flaming, impossibly bright.

         Instead, I lay on the driveway

between my son and daughter

   and we stared into the night,

      laughing and singing and listening

         to the sound of the earth turning,

the pavement hard beneath us—

   and above us, the whole

      starry firmament unfolding.

         Not one shooting star did we see, no, but oh,

how the milky way swirled all around us,

   our eyes wide open, my heart soaring, swarming,

      a small piece of matter burning up,

         glowing, impossibly bright,

never quite touching the earth.

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asked to rate my satisfaction

from one to five stars—

trying to submit the milky way

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One Wheeling

watching the comet

I, too, hurtle through the stars—

disappear beyond the horizon

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