Issue 12

Summer 2014


Plotting the Path of a Seasonal Constellation


We find our fathers in different places,
upturned myths having hidden us
on hillsides scattered with shepherds.
Once I said: Take this slice of moon,
these fingerprint seas. Their slick surfaces
marred with oily traces, then wiped clean.
Or did I say: Take this little beam of light
thin as paper, floppy, fragile – I made it
for you. I unpacked this string of stars,
strung them up for paths & plans,
winter constellations. I thought to tell
you: Take this dipper, these tangled
midway lights. I spun them around
their center point, placed them in your sky.
(Our fathers surprise us in the evenings: 
charioted, angry, taking up the whole road.)
I thought I said it loud enough:
Twinkle when you see me. Take these
starry words & spin them like a mobile –
hang them overhead, twisted wires & fishline
swinging in the breeze.  Omen-less, our fathers
curtain their windows, leaning out of sight,
as we travel on the roadside, covered in dust.


Emma Aprile