People talking about the phases of the silvery moon,
the Peter Pan brightness beckoning in the stars—
I haven’t seen a distant sun in months,
and the fairy tales have shimmered away.
No celestial pin pricks in the darkened cyclorama,
no blazes from back in a time before my tiny self
tried to sparkle into existence. I live in
a perfect night, bundled beneath the
suffocation of cloudy particles
and blankets, an empty visibility
stretching into periphery
and over the horizon.
People love a little star shine.
I don’t know what happened
to me. I’m anchor-chained on this stark lake
of arrogance and folly, a slow lapping without
the benevolence of illumination
and godsend.
A child wishes
on the first one she sees, lovers wish
on the fallen—I have no blessed light
to witness. Something cheerlessly cast out
has happened here. What America
coughs up to heaven
might be what happened. Of course
I want answers. I pray someone
has the heart
to wish for the future,
for me.