On a starry night she curls up like a Persian on her bed. Past the faded leaves and dead bugs, she spies the star, the one that blinks pale green then deep pink. Almost like Christmas. Once, she told him she was Venus, solid and stable. He pointed to the star: like a candle's flame before a summer storm. Not even Helen of Troy was as alluring, as stunning. An oyster's pearl, never as obscure. The star is a pin-hole in the sky. Now, she stretches crossways, stares into the porous ebony, wonders if he would lie beside her if she had been born a star.
Posted inPoetry
On a Starry Night
