Amberle L. Husbands
Published on: 1/13/2013
Tomorrow's Night Sky
The black boldness of Sky
stretches over like a map thrown out,
like newspaper dropped into the breeze—
the whisper comes:
"You'll never get it folded again."
You and I and six billion besides,
stretched out like stones on the ground,
pressed backwards pound by pound
into our aching backs, bad knees and cataracts.
All waiting for the cattle call,
the dawn when virgin flood gates break
on the frontier, the last of all;
onto the gods' front porch.
I got burned—who didn't?—
on that last October beach;
we all watched our bird,
last flight, Atlantis' pyre
climbing up, up, and gone.
Left us squinting, looking higher, left us burnt,
and all a little too close to the sun.
Virgo comes back around
dragging spring by its hair.
She'd grown old ill-used and jaded—
tired of telling us not to stare
as they go thundering through the sky.
After all, what's another blind child,
And you and I plus six billion
all watch them come and go.
You and I and all the lovers
hold on tight as the world grows old.
And you and I; only children,
only fools could be so bold,
as you turn to me tonight and sigh,
and ask if I would go, tomorrow.