Aurora Borealis

I’ll figure it out, one day,

how to catch that feeling in my butterfly net;

that delicious smallness and the almost-pain in the neck

of a head titled too far back.

My name was Nothing in the way that is relief,

not disappointment,

and that voice,

warped and insatiable, angry and mine,

that voice was finally quiet.

There was nothing to do,

or do better,

or faster,

or more,

just the holy, giddying task of looking up,

and listening when the starts whispered,

Hush, you are small on purpose.

I’ll figure it out, one day,

how to bottle the fizzy joy

pouring haphazardly from me,

so unapologetically;

I think I was eight again,

back before I learned to cover my mouth when I laughed.

The air bit, and I bit back,

playfully,

wildly,

heedlessly,

baying words that needed no translation.

I’ll figure it out, one day,

how to catch hold of that writhing, serpentine tail,

how to dive into that terpsichorean river;

I’ll learn the art of being swept along

and the practice of unmindfulness.

I’ll figure it out, one day,

how to be the girl I was there,

between the snow and stars,

when I looked up, the way people always have.

So many nights before,

and every night since,

the sky was and is and has been

empty.

But that night,

that night,

it wasn’t—

it wasn’t;

but that’s so much worse, because now I know it can be full,

and I am so hungry.