The New Mexico sky is alive,
redder than a child’s wagon on a dusty front lawn.
I watch the stars blink like forgotten Christmas lights
and the constellations shift, dissatisfied
with their placements and
sending ripples through mythology
with every new shape they make.
We have blankets
and enough hope among us
to keep the morning star burning above the far hills.
I am flanked by mountainous profiles:
the crag of a nose,
the devastating valley of a lip.
We are wondering if someone out there
could read our thoughts;
if someone out there would take us to their leader,
and even take an interest in what puts our bodies together.
we gaze upward.
It’s crazy to believe
we’re alone in the universe, someone says,
and I smile into my shoulder, considering,
of all things, space:
the starry unknown
between fingers and words.
—By Cat Aquino ♦