Even the first people didn’t witness
that first eruption in the dark,
the first deluge of light,
the breaking of the endless
into time. Even if we learned,
in time, to measure
the interval between them
and the beginning, and one another,
and the end, we’d still fail to understand
the burn and tremble of initial stars
how light roared
out of nothing.
There are moments
that will die, live
on and on in their coursing,
chasing after years into a billion,
adding to the thousand stars
that will live, die
again. But it wasn’t them,
the ones not first to witness,
who failed to overcome
the burning cold.
Airport
On nights we drown
in the sky’s dark, our eyes
scarce shut, we search
for dragon’s fire, half-
horse Centaurs, face of a bear,
teeth of a lion, bull’s horns.
You raise my tiny hands, point
my fingers toward Orion’s
refuge or Perseus’ sword, and
Hercules’ labors follow.
You draw with stories. Everything
while Mother’s gone, while
drowsiness has yet to visit.
On nights when light drowns
out the sky, I mistake the red
light of a post above the street
for a planet, see you astride
the gathered comets in the air.
How will you teach me now to draw
dogs chasing after a single, bright balloon
if you’re off trailing two columns
of stars? Sleep
doesn’t arrive until I hear
the hum and whir of machines, spinning blades,
which, familiar, flood the dark.
Odysseus
Hold on a little longer, love, and soon
you’ll nestle in the folds of my palms,
your evening tiredness tended by my touch,
cold swaddled in warmth’s cradle.
Let my fingers near
your body scarred by the chisel’s journey,
I’ll be the sculptor, hope these forms familiar—
curves etched close, a month inside a comma.
And if my grip becomes too tight
just say the word, love, and I’ll release you,
step back, steady my focus—
from a distance I will wait again.
I only ask one thing of you: don’t hide
the map lined in your palms, your heart the guide.
Waking Up
Spontaneous generation is a dream.
—Louis Pasteur
I narrowed my eyes
upon seeing a leaf
budding from a wooden
floorboard. A seed
growing without blessing
of water, without sunlight,
and with no trace of soil; it entered
without a door.
It could’ve been a dream
where I saw the scene
with no reason; in worlds like ours
things appear
without roots.
Fluid
The child kicks her pillow before falling
more deeply into dreams. It’s said
that moving the feet while asleep
is a sign you’re growing up—another finger’s breadth
measured against the neck or leg, the forehead or knee,
like a baby afloat
in a water-filled womb,
head glued to its toes, enveloped
in light that soon rushes out,
like a figure wearing white
and walking further into evening,
like Icarus who fled, flew
ever closer to the sun, and ended
unrescued, kicking in the ocean.
