Snow flurries across my window,
torn from the sky. The remnants of
clouds ripped by ghosts.
Swirls in the snow—I see faces.
Women and children, transparent
in their flight as they thrash against
glass. Dreams come alive.
Turned nightmare by the fury
of a grey sky that rages.
Eyes burn, shallow, but with an intensity
that terrifies me.
And I close my eyes against the storm.
But the rage,
the rage that threatens to rip apart,
seethes and I can see it in my breath.
A fire creeps toward me,
threatens to caress my cheek and take me home.
The telescope rests now,
its giant eye watching the stars.
The boy sleeps, his ceiling glows
with painted constellations.
Stars arrange themselves—
a story he refuses to read.
He finds a one-eyed dog, a unicorn that lost
its horn, a motherless boy.
When stars peek, like tiny
suns, he goes up to his room to watch.
His father’s voice quivers
through the carpet, punctuated
by clinking glass. He stares through
a telescope pretending
there are other worlds.
A constellation of tumbling stars,
like hair, framing blue eyes
that see how tough nights are.
When he screams
his father doesn’t come.
Sweated blankets cocoon him.
Starlight slips through the window,
almost kneels next to him,
and burns the terrors away.
His face eases into sleep.
The starlight fades, catches on
the photo of his mother,
and is gone.