a brand-new sky of constellations
on quiet nights i look up and imagine
that i can still see stars through
the light of the city.
i once knew where orion kept his belt,
knew how to keep cassiopeia’s secrets.
i memorized the lyre’s songs.
if only i could reach out and
pluck constellations out of the sky
like pennies off the sidewalk.
if only i could keep them and save them up
for a grand reordering of
new shapes of myself.
but i know it is selfish
to want the stars
to want them put into my own designs
to want to keep them.
who am i to decide my stories
will ever be better than the greeks?
that i could ascend like andromeda
on the crest of a wave or
fly on the wing of cygnus?
no, i do not balance
on astraia’s scales.
i want so much, too much.
so on quiet nights
i mostly quiet myself.
still i sing myself into existence.
i search the stars that map
my stories—lost systems of mythos—
and shape them into dreams i can
soothe myself with when i feel
the weight of wanting crushing me.
these dreams—they are barely held
by cosmic dust, a faintest veil
of starlit glitter, but
at least a whole night sky
exists within me.
About the Author
E.G. Regan is a writer from Toronto, ON. She can usually be found binge-reading young adult fantasy novels, researching obscure folklore, or playing The Sims. Her work has been published in The Bangor Literary Journal, Savant Garde, and Stone of Madness Press. She also designs chapbooks for Whispering Wick Chapbook Press. You can find her on twitter at @eg_regan.