While They Last
Mark the date on your moon calendar: those in the know proclaim the ring of density of Saturn, mere illusion. Now would be the time to claim your constellation. Wait! Thing are moving too fast. I have no idea what I might need in the future, but would consider the cozy living space of a honeycombed comet, all cave-like and dark. I need a safe place where there are pulsating stars within my reach, whether I need them or not. Truth: nowhere is free from the fear that stalks us. Witness Hare and Dove cowering at the feet of Orion the Hunter. Gemini has enough mythology to keep us flush in stories until the end of time. I’m listening.
There is nothing common about the common bird. As a matter of conveyance, they are a wonder. I’ve stood in pepper fields up to my chin watching the blur of beating wings in concert with the violet, slow moving celestial sphere, but it all might have been imagined. I need a cardiogram. I need a cable knit sweater to throw over my shoulders on nights like these. Flights of fancy are like a ligature of love: it hurts you in the end, but feels so good in the execution. Regale me with sky lore. I could be telegenic in prime time, all smart-like, using the language of NASA. They know a thing or two about roiling constellations and things that fall out of the sky. If I had a mate, someone finely feathered in all of the right places, I could break records of flight and duration. I’d be a legend. If I had a choice, I’d choose rubies for eyes and the best taxidermist in town. He’d twist my gaze to start perpetually at the sun.
Michelle Reale is an Associate Professor at Arcadia University. She is the author of several collections of poetry. She blogs about her ethnography among African refugees in Sicily at http://www. sempresicilia.wordpress.com