Constellations Poem by Chelsea Locke

Do we have to count the stars?
Or may we merely dance beneath them?
Numerical representation of such beauty
taints them just a tad,
don't you think? About forever
and a day ago when Orthodox traditions were left by the roadside
to fade like the candy-apple firebird
you left under the Florida sun; dissolved
like morning dew on the pavement of my mother's driveway
where I stood leaning on the gate. I listened for the storm
of that engine to take me away.
For a little while, at least. You pressed your forehead to mine
"reality is not meant for people like us."
So we compensated with jagged half-moons
and traveled through time-lapsed sun movements
across the same manicured lawns and
highways that led to the threat of
vacant tomorrows. They unfurled before us
like cereus cactus flowers at night, like roadkill at dawn. We open
now; eyes wide, stretching out our limbs like stars,
gathering the dreams we almost let die from between blades
of grass. Perhaps
tonight we can enter the constellations. Perhaps
tomorrow we will come down.