Seven Sisters

For thirty seconds at ten pm
time held its breath — Emma striding
away, an ebb tide on Clayton
street, her auburn hair and rust-colored
scarf, small waves in the October
wind, and finally, she’s eclipsed
by the parade of college kids
bar-hopping, it’s Thursday night after
all, their pockets graced by fake
IDs and credit cards billed
to Mom. No prof is foolish
enough to teach on Fridays,
when all those quotes about the
“love that burns brightest”, “hottest”,
“scorches”, “sears”, float by — lyrics
from a mental karaoke
machine, and today being just short of my
thirty-eighth birthday, I stepped out
of the revolving ten pm sky
full of twinkling co-eds, and ran my
fingers over the two burn scars on
my left bicep — wondering why I
couldn’t keep that flame burning,
wondering how my heart had twisted
into the Pleiades — those seven
star sisters that can’t be viewed
directly, always hovering on the
the periphery — just out of
focus — never crisp, never clear —
never to be held.

MacQueen’s Quinterly 16, 2023