by Steph Post
And sometimes even breathing
Can be crushing.
A thousand tiny stars burning down.
A thousand upon a thousand, in the cupped space
Between my palms.
And still it is too heavy.
And still it is too much.
Because every star could be a person
And every person is someone I could
Love, if only.
But I hate eating and parking lots and novels
Written in first person.
I love orange juice cartons, square
Like a little house, the roof pinched between my
Fingers, swinging at my side.
But I’m sure that’s not enough.
Will it ever be enough?
When the weight of the stars and the people, with
Their words, glances, shrugged shoulders, silence
Retweets, echoes, parties, spiraling into families, into
Clusters of eyes, inside looking out
Pushes me down, I think of the fish.
With their mouths open, gasping
In a bar, on a show, on a channel.
Everyone else is laughing.
Bowed heads, fingers on wrists, conversations, connections
Holding their beers like the fish
And I am running out into
The night, haunted
By the gasping of the fish.
And the smiles of the fishermen. On the show. In the place.
And the human race, tumbling around me,
Falling in and out of love.
Out of love.
And sometimes I think, I could
Sometimes, I think
If I were a star and you were a star and
You and you and you, but
I love foxes and dust and documentaries about caves.
I love that moment when the light changes
And the world shimmers and the curtain
Lifts and there is no sky bearing down. I think,
You might know the one.
That I am breathing. I think,
All the stars will be gone.