Even our own sun will, one day, leave its ordained round of the sky no longer crossing the Milky Way or shining only on the moon’s bright side. But wandering off into the weeds to lie down and rest, Say to us—no, no you go ahead.
In the dark, waiting, time will tumble unstuck from the clock face. We will forget how to determine lines of meridian. We will imagine the histories of the gods that will come after us.
Until the new sun rises, more rosy than golden. A sun that dances with the planets and leads the moon on a leash made of spider silk. And we will watch as it goes crooked down the mountain side carving a new path for the little stars that spill after.
I live in a pyrotechnic universe garish with a bright mathematics that allows me to calculate how much it has cost me to buy Rita Hayworth’s second wedding dress, some purple fairy lights to hang from my umbrella, and a pair of ruby slippers that will take me anywhere but home. By 3am, I have lost my mother’s ring, the heel of my right shoe, and your phone number. Carrying only my hope of redemption and someone else’s car keys, I cross the lawn, on fire and spinning.
I am all asunder and have no way to put myself back together
there is no name sewn carefully on the front of my shirt no buttons either my pants creep away from my socks my socks have new holes in the toes
my morning has drifted away from its moorings as my day creeps away from its morning
if only I could find a pattern in the snow drops that have almost made their way above the crusted snow I can see their strap-like leaves tips bent against the icy dome
but winter holds on the morning begins with snow and darkness here beneath we are undone and unknowing dawn is a thing that happens only above the clouds
The draft from the barely open window cools my back. I listen to the the barn owl call his mate back from her dawn hunting.
The back door closes lightly and I hear this morning’s fire wood tumble into the box. There is just a tinge of pink light on the tops of the trees. Enough to see the across the clearing but not into the woods. Your right slipper squeaks as you climb the stairs.
The shower starts and I hear water splash against the tiles. I turn the pillow and rest my cheek on the cool percale of the other side. Downstairs the dog clatters her dish across the kitchen calling for her breakfast.
I roll over and listen for the soft cooing of the owls as they settle for the day. The mice are waiting for them to fall asleep. I drowse too.
Then, I hear your bare feet cross the creaking floor. You are bringing me hot, black tea and oranges. You climb back into bed beside me, peel the fruit and hand me sections. I bite them and spill their juice down my chin. You laugh and rub your bristly cheek against the back of my neck.
And I marvel at how much I can love you lying here in the scent of our unmade bed with the sweetness of December clementines on my tongue.
Lisa and I stand in the back of the church while everyone else mimes praying for Grandfather’s soul.
She points to a lanky boy of uncertain parentage whose bow tie has settled at a rakish angle over his burgeoning Adam’s apple. She confides that Aunt Kat is actually his step-mother. The boy having been abandoned but not one but two parents before his third birthday.
My 32 year-old sister, Pamela, is refusing to share a hymnal with our mother’s second husband. A dear man whose only sin is loving our mother when Pamela can not.
Lisa’s tells me her brother, Sam, has seen our gold-toothed uncle who was rumored to have been living in the tropics or maybe he was in prison. I tell her I don’t believe him. I keep to myself that I know where Uncle Mike is and how unlikely it is that he will ever leave the state hospital.
Grandfather’s sisters whisper about his widow’s youngest daughter, Julie. Her dress is demure enough but her left hand is naked, even though the divorce isn’t final.
In the second pew, our youngest cousins, in matching glitter eye shadow, wear bright sundresses and goose bumps on their shoulders. The bishop scowls at them but they do not care. He’s just another old man staring.
Behind the cousins, there is a man in dirty coke-bottle glasses who can’t seem to figure out when to stand and when to bow his head. I say that he must be the crooked accountant Grandfather always blamed for his business troubles. Lisa tells me he’s the gardener.
