On a starry night
she curls up
like a Persian
on her bed.
Past the faded leaves
and dead bugs
on her ceiling window,
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,
and wonders if he would lie
beside her if
she had been born a star.
Copyright © Jo R. Hawke. All rights reserved.
