Where Stars Come From



Out the window tonight Orion stands, those

three stars, like the tailor’s belt, marking death.

As she watches, the sky changes, rotates,

a reflection of the path she walks on earth.


In August meteors spray across the clear,

solid black. She asks where, why. He tells her

they are souls. Stored until they shoot into birth.

And when they die, when we die, we go home.




We stand on the bow of the uneasy boat.

The inside straight is gray, choppy,

unsteady enough that we quickly snap

into the lifeline on the foredeck.


We don’t talk as he carefully raises

the silver sextant, then lowers it

to wipe salt spray off the wet eye

piece, the smudged horizon mirror.


We smile, look up as the clouds

part, leaving just a moment to see

Jupiter dripping, an earring

off the edge of the crescent moon.




May brings northwest rain.

She can’t see stars

through the gray mist,

can’t see the vapor trail

he might have left her.

Eventually, she wonders,

will she be able to lie

on her stomach in

this churchyard Stonehenge,

sight the sky

and plot him moving

from point

to point?


(Published by Straight Forward Poetry, Issue Ten, 12/20/15)