Longing for stars, I woke
at the poets’ hour. I sat up,
parted the drapes. A light
shone down on the empty street.
Another covered the lawn.
Bulbs are restrained here, reddish—
glow, not twinkle—
and under downward shades
to protect the sky, but I grieve
to have seen them burning at three a.m.
in a mountain village of sleeping
hosts and tourists. Around
my childhood house, the night
was black. A lamb might cry.
An owl. A vixen. A wind.
Come out, our father called.
He pointed up. Scorpio
threaded its tail through
the Milky Way. I thrilled
to discern the Magellanic Clouds
by retina, across
intergalactic space. I read
the charts, followed
the Southern Cross. Orion,
Sirius. Venus, Jupiter.
Like any starstruck kid, I left
for the city. The books
it showed me were all
about a future. I studied
computer science, got a job.
In the lab in the early nineties
I fell in love. We built
the Net, joined dots across
the world, that people might
enlighten one another.
Even as late as nineteen
ninety-five, the streetlamp
on the verge beyond our fence
went out at one.
We made a child in its silence.
Twelve years tall,
they would only go to sleep
guarded by a nightlight’s
benevolence. They quivered if
the power went off. I grieve
for our eyes, our datastruck
surveillance camera eyes
aghast by dark. Not looking
for beautiful gods in the night
but demons with human faces.
First published in Blackmail Press 46, March 2025
Jackson 