We mapped the stars perfectly, lying
on our backs on dew-covered lawn chairs
until the summer-night chill sent us
running into the safe-sure warmth
of the brick-oven kitchen, steaming mugs of tea
then the dry soft comfort of our beds.
We knew the seven sisters, the bright
corners of secret constellations
and the dark hollow in the swan, pondered
the mystery of what lay on its other side,
its light swallowed whole by some gluttonous
sky-dragon before it found our way.
Somehow we got too old and misplaced
our beloved charts, forgot how the sky
was built from the ribcage of a goddess
torn apart by jealous sons, her heart
ravenous, devouring worlds as her fractured
womb erupted with the angry births of nebulae.
August 29, 2009