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Strange Lullabies
There are flakes of gold and silver 
 on the chalky lunar surface 
 of the ceiling in my room. Late 
 at night, when insomnia harangued 
 me into wakefulness at ungodly 
 hours between too-late and far-
 too-early, I lay in bed and counted
 these makeshift stars.
 
 
 
 
 ···
 When I was in elementary school, my siblings
 and I would sit out and watch the stars. Eventually,
 the pollution got so bad we wouldn't stay out anymore.
 What was the point? My ceiling had kept them safe
 for us, anyway.
 
 
 
 
 ···
 In early middle school, my oldest sister would draw
 out lazy constellations in the air with her finger.
 Those nights, I retraced them into my ceiling,
 whispering “Libra, the Big Dipper, Virgo”
 until sleep rendered me unfit
 to travel from star-cluster
 to star-cluster.
 
 
 
 
 ···
 When I hit seventh grade,
 I wanted to study astrophysics.
 “A small girl with big ambitions,”
 people joked.
  
 We are one in billions,
 on a watery rock orbiting
 a ball of combusting gasses
 in a solar system surrounded 
 by billions more on the edge
 of an ever-expanding galaxy
 in a terribly giant universe.
  
 I supposed, well, 
 everyone is small, 
 in a sense.
 
 
 
 
 ···
 I stared at the glittering flakes,
 then out the window. My sister’s
 breathing was loud in the emptiness
 of the room. We ushered in moonlight
 with each passing second.
  
 “College,” she said quietly, 
 “any idea what you wanna do?”
  
 Yes. No. I traced out Orion’s Belt
 with a crooked forefinger, 
 just as I had years ago.
  
 “Write, maybe.” I answered at last. 
 My finger followed the contour 
 of Scorpio when she continued.
  
 “I thought you wanted to get into 
 something math-y, or, uh… 
 that science? Engineering?”
  
 I do. No, I don’t. 
 My eyes scanned 
 the ceiling for the furthest 
 twinkling flake.
  
 “Think they’ll be okay with it? 
 Me going into books and all that jazz?” 
 I asked, eyeing the far-off winking 
 reflection. We both knew who I meant. 
 Her silence did little to comfort me.
  
 “You’ll always have us,” she said.
  
 Yes, I think, pointing at the flake—
 grade student, middle-schooler and graduate 
 all in the same breath—
 you will be my North Star.

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