a brand-new sky of constellations

E.G. Regan

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

space—new fables,

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.