From a Rooftop, Southern Minnesota, 2:00am

by krstaten

I remember what it was like
to feel the galaxies at my fingertips.
They felt like the wind
from on top of your roof
outside of your bedroom window
while everyone else was asleep,
which is to say,
they felt like a cold spot
in a warm pool,
or a warm spot
in a cold lake,
or like sunlight
or moonlight
or no light at all,
which is to say,
they felt like fifteen years old
and not knowing what love was.
I’d hold my hands up
as if in prayer
and we’d tell each other
that the stars would hear our desires.

That was before I lived in a place
where the world itself
swallowed up life itself;
before I lived
where the globes of street lights
fought the pinpricks of stars
into submission,
where emergencies drowned out the wind
and the galaxies couldn’t hear me
at all.

I remember a power outage
at two o’clock am,
trying to write in a journal
by moonlight
while you told me how you wished
he would hold you.
Those galaxies, they felt like
the pen and the paper,
like the shingles beneath me,
like wind, like whispers,
like quiet, like nothing.
I remember what it was like
to touch the sky
in a world where the sky could fall low enough
to silence the earth.


I should have specified in my last post that I intend to start the new posting schedule in July. So if anyone was expecting a poem yesterday and thinks I’m just terrible at making commitments, I apologize.