The Constellation Drawn

Poetry | Lorelei Bacht

There is absolutely no sleep left in 

this bag of cloud, and I have milked 

the salt of it – what remains to do now,

but sit and wait and sit and wait,  

for salvation, a sign? 

He is not going to send the police, 

a rescue team, or a letter. It is not 

going to happen – now what?

the beauty of the star is in 

the telescope you build.

When that is done, nothing. 

If I were birds, there would be a glimmer:

the hope of a branch, the mouth of 

a cat, something. 

If the eye of a star, if a silence. 

The light is slow to reach 

the inside of the bulb, of the eyeball – 

it is one of those large numbers he likes, 

statistical, indifferent – a practiced detachment. 

Sitting here in the dark is harder than

any thought we could have formulated

with our fingers. 

In general, it is easier to panic. 

The constellation drawn, dot after dot, 

after dot, dot. It looked beautiful on paper.