No surprise to Louise that Amber was drawn to the stars.
The throbbing of distant light, a long ago story told now
in a night sky, pitted, pierced, perforated –
a raging science shining with supposed gentleness.
Amber stood at her window, engrossed in the gentle beams of starlight.
She believed in Heaven then. Everything in the firmament
was a rung on a ladder, spasmodic but straight,
perfect for girlhood’s propagating blast.
Louise’s reign was over before it began.
The stars were something so vast they were containable.
But the boy next door was a different kind of shiny vaulted ceiling.
Louise knows the crack, the release, of something
a long time hatching, a gradating of the insides released,
all fissures all of the time, first above but eventually below,
when the woman emerges and Amber begins to look ahead,
and sometimes even down.
There’s no way to spare a daughter from anything, she realizes.
The egg divides. The creature inside pulsates of its own volition.
It widens, it expands and then it announces.
Only futility stands in its way.