The Stars — A New Poem
Believe me, these stars
were meant for you
and not for me.
They’re below the ceiling edge
staring at me.
A plastic, neon-star echo
sung from a leftover child’s bedroom.
The previous family was surely happy,
connected, and complete.
The type with snug bedtime stories,
and fresh snow on Christmas.
I only notice them at night,
when my lights are out,
and the dark is silk, clay, and mud.
They indigo-spike the gloom
in a glowing, five-point crown
frowning at me like muted suns.
I’m remembering poignantly
all those promises we couldn’t keep.
My roommate was too short to scalp
all those comets free
unhooked from their night sky of
cheap glue and white sheetrock.
She didn’t know they’d be blackhole
reminders of my marriage and family.
There was never a complete constellation
to guide us towards a normal home.
I do wish, my sons,
you had gotten the same roof,
but instead you have two houses,
bedrooms, holidays, separate everything.
An alternating, day-of-the-week purgatory
of endless in-between.
I couldn’t give it to you,
no matter how much I tried.
Yet, please believe me when I say,
these stars were meant for you
and not for me.


