There were not to be any stars
seen in the planetarium
after that summer.
The whole building was being razed
for a new structure with a name
in deference to the prairie.
The news led to mourning
in ways I could easily decipher
as tied to nostalgia: the school trip
a thousand years ago
when we sat stunned
into silence.
Even the fidgeters ceased
their repositioning.
I remembered how we drove
through Nebraska past midnight
once. It was a long, dark stretch
I was certain would be perfect
for star gazing, if we were ever not bound
by panic for those we loved
and had time to stop.
I thought of yet another moon
of another planet just discovered
and of the icy rings shepherded
and how far.
seen in the planetarium
after that summer.
The whole building was being razed
for a new structure with a name
in deference to the prairie.
The news led to mourning
in ways I could easily decipher
as tied to nostalgia: the school trip
a thousand years ago
when we sat stunned
into silence.
Even the fidgeters ceased
their repositioning.
I remembered how we drove
through Nebraska past midnight
once. It was a long, dark stretch
I was certain would be perfect
for star gazing, if we were ever not bound
by panic for those we loved
and had time to stop.
I thought of yet another moon
of another planet just discovered
and of the icy rings shepherded
and how far.
|
Kelly R. Samuels is the author of two poetry collections and four chapbooks—the most recent Oblivescence (Red Sweater Press, 2024) and Talking to Alice (Whittle Micro-Press, 2023.) She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee with work appearing in The Massachusetts Review, River Styx, Sixth Finch, Denver Quarterly, december, and RHINO. She lives in the Upper Midwest.
|
