The planet I’m from revolves around a blue star.
We had three moons. One for morning,
one for mid-day and one for dusk.
I had a mother and father who read me the night sky
like a children’s storybook. There were creatures who could see
the light of one candle leaning in a breaze on some other world.
There were things that flew and things that stayed still,
creatures in the trees whose eyes I mistook for stars in winter.
And there was us. Lightweight, nimble, filled with beautiful fictions
stories and rhymes we chose to believe because the nights
were so long, our star small and cold, and all we had or knew
was each other. And on this planet now, in a system I don’t belong
I stare at the strange constellations as if I could find that blue star again.
As if its weak light would be recognizable after traveling hundreds
of thousands of light years from before any mothers or fathers had sons.