celestial bodies

celestial bodies

The sky is less like sky than it used to be. Clouds mope about. Stars collapse. At the first drops of rain, the leaves start to tremble, little children raised on a bleak diet of curses and slaps. I sit in the window, imagining myself one of the immigrants who crowded the ship’s railing for a first look at their new home or a last look at their old.

*

“Oon,” our 2-year-old says. He means “moon.” The closer I listen, the darker it gets.

*

Light and shadow refuse to stand still. I shut my eyes. When I open them again, a torn and bleeding god is shuffling down a street of pawnshops and check-cashing stores. “Always keep a gun by your side,” a voice meant for radio says. Someone else asks if that’s the ocean or a flood. Rumors abound as to the slow sunrise of a woman’s body. I fight to stay awake until then.