The Greater She-Bear

 I’m up late to watch intermittent meteor
 showers flick across night,
 International Space Station breaststroke
 the Big Dipper. A perfume of starlight
 rides a far-flung skyline.
 So much happening out there,
 in the soup bowl of evening.

An apology of bats swirls the atmosphere—
fireflies twirl the wake like phosphorescence
on deep water. I trace the path with one finger,
connect dots with stars, draw Ursus Major.

I will name a future child, ‘Callisto’,
and watch in quiet despair
as her feet sink below the horizon.

The cat trots up the unlit driveway,
crying for attention. I tell him about Jupiter.
I tell him about the cosmos. Unimpressed,
he waits by the door—all comfortable things
crave inside familiarity. All gods require revenge.

One last meteor streaks past my sight,
dissolves into emptiness.
Sirens rise and fall in the distance,
fade by degrees.
I desire the silence of space.

The Greater She-Bear ladles out patience,
promises me a spiral galaxy to call my own

Published in Rappahannock Review

 

 

The Origin of Humans

 Is this the Madagascar glow you told
 me about? Tall baobab trees blazing
 with the last light of a faded sun? Are
 the water-storing trunks and flat tops
 twisted out of a fairy tale? Are these
 the trade winds dreamed of, carrying
 us on outbound tide to sunset? Can
 we drift beyond the horizon to meet
 the dusk halfway? Why can’t golden
 light be our new illuminated currency?
 Does slip-silver of leaping fish catch
 the wind and flip us back to radiant
 fantasy? Will the glistening cycle of
 beginning and end bring us closer to
 eternity? Who wouldn’t long for Africa
 during a full moon? Would you leap
 into sapphire waters from hewn cliffs,
 clutching my outstretched hand?

 

 

Doppler Effect

A song came on the radio, one I remember
from when I was in love. It was disconcerting
to feel the feelings of years ago well up fresh
as yesterday. I can picture a humble apartment,
the daily dance of just-marrieds fumbling their

way to companionship. Yet there were days I
longed for my singularity again. There were
nights I stood outside and stared rapt into
inky blackness, transfixed by constellations,
aware of the gentle beat of repeated melodies

from the tape deck. My musical tastes have
changed, maybe in response to the divorce.
I abandoned a whole genre in order to not be
reminded of you. Yet here was the odd song
from the past, determined to track me down.

There is no defense against whims of super-
markets. There among the apples and navel
oranges I stood, head cocked as the familiar
refrain wormed itself into my brain. I partook
of some mental jujitsu and allowed myself to

hum along, accepting the music as I ducked
and threw it over one shoulder into the vast
closet of regrets. I was reminded again life has
constants, here, in a night sky where distant
stars thrum as strong as a long forgotten song.

Published in Syzygy Poetry Journal

 

Blue Norther

You wondered at the things
that changed me, gave voice
to attributes much loftier

than needed, when really, it was
the minutia piled against a soul—
indifferent tumbleweeds

stacked, entangled, repositioned
with each shift of the wind—
caught in the throat of change

 as the storm hammered down.
 It was the little things,
 the ones you shrugged off,

 mere ice crystals on an overcoat
 melting into nameless dark flecks.
 Damp chill brings primitive fear-

 reek of blizzard-driven sheep
 heaped, defenseless, against
 whatever object stopped

 forward motion. They die
 together, in illusory warmth,
 thinking the fence their savior.

Published in Syzygy Poetry Journal

 

 

Rabbit Holes

Garden walkers gaze through a tangled
hedge of roses hoping for a glimpse of
Wonderland. Rock, rock, rabbit, off he
goes, dodge and dart, a streak on our

 peripheral vision, drop of rain caressing
an April windowpane. Oh, to give chase,
to feel the grass unwind beneath fey feet
and spring us forward, fast as a hound,

 all mimsy until the rabbit hole. Fling your-
self in after, tumble round, there’s nothing
but doors, each opening into a separate
universe, some with stars, some without.

 This is where comets are born and shoved
squalling into space, racing each other to
the future, one where they return home,
laurel-wreathed, discontent, transformed.

Published in Syzygy Poetry Journal

 


Tanka

 years of buttons
 in a glass Ball jar
 the blue one on the top
 so far from the blue one
 on the bottom

Published in American Tanka

 



 

 

 

© 2019 Constance Brewer All Rights Reserved