Category: Starlight (Issue XVI)

Centaur, firing an arrow

Indu Parvathi

At the window, the crow waits for its usual,
half a banana or a biscuit, but the astrologer
reads forefathers’ ire in its calls,
warns of imports. Between cousins
and curtains, the spout
of my Sagittarian teapot tilts
towards his board spilling milky ways.
Impress him. Nebulae rise with the fumes
from the ghee lit lamp,
–Eau de space– it’s acrid. He decodes
cyphers from my palm leaf  horoscope,
only a bride crossing the seas.
I touch my feng shui bracelet, remember
there are other doors. In the river crossing
game some stones are dummies. Rahu kalam,
yama ganda kalam, gulika kalam…

Indu Parvathi

Light Meals

Sabrynne Buchholz

the gods eat gems at daybreak, as the sun devours the stars
and us at the bottom, groundlevel, the cogs, we drink the juice of oranges
a gift from the glow of those higher beings, but less than that saved for the heavens
sunbeam rolls over tide to froth on the sand, grains shaped like stars
or shards made in the image of space–

leftovers not meant for consumption, but we make do with a day at the beach
fortune is found in freedom, but perhaps can be manufactured
cogs and gears and wheels work hard to create what cannot be found, and
isn’t creation meant only for gods?
the sun and its fellows all roar and consume 

yet left in that wake are all the things meant for us
the hierarchy feels muddled sometimes, but
each day starts the same as the last – the gods eat breakfast, the cogs start to turn
day turns to night, and collectively, we all take a breath
fruit can glimmer like crystal

Sabrynne Buchholz

Meteor Envy

RC deWinter

It was an ordinary August night in this sterile suburb by the sea,
cloaking the claustrophobic day with a dark flat curtain
that did nothing to dispel the woolly air that, thick
with the unshed tears of heaven, clotted even as I breathed –
but better to be outside than choked by the clutter
of witless air-conditioned conversation.

I dragged a chair across the lawn and settled into in the almost-silence,
punctuated only by the buzz and hum of hungry things with wings and
the snuffling of the neighbor’s ancient dog, freed for his nightly tour of
duty round his postagestamp enclosure.

I sat smoking and thinking, trying to figure out how a life once so fully,
freely lived had narrowed to the confines of a holding pen whose only
exit leads straight to the slaughterhouse.
These uffish thoughts spun round the cul-de-sac of my brain
until I wanted to shout and stamp and tear my hair out by the handfuls.

Then, unannounced, the ancient hero loosed his minions, a shining
army of footloose cosmic miscreants that blazed across the sky
in the most beautiful disorder imaginable.
Like crazed schoolboys held for detention and finally freed,
these glowing pieces of the stars that made us raced and frolicked,
spinning, tumbling, showing off their colors.

I jumped up and ran along the perimeter of the yard,
following, until, winded, I stopped, lit a cigarette –
then anotherandanotherandanother, making my own sparks,
wanting to be one of them, watching until the sky returned to the staid,
empty blue it had been before, all the while hoping when I hit
the slaughterhouse, my indestructibles will find their way to wherever
Perseus is camped so I can enlist.

RC deWinter

Sky of Your Influence

Angela Acosta

Ernesto Giménez Cabellero is at it again,
his telescope always pointed towards Saturn
and his eager lunar brethren.

In 1927 he drew a whole universe of Spanish literature with
nascent nebulas spelling acrostics of esteemed men
as Perez de Ayala’s comet bursts through the sky.

Constellations chart the course of literary trajectories,
the magazines strung out like ticker tape parades
of influence, viewed through a telescope (15 céntimos per view).

There must be a place for you, femme and fair,
wedged between Ortega y Gasset and Menéndez Pidal
like the goddess Ceres in the asteroid belt providing artistic nourishment.

Ascend the observatory and take in more of the sky,
beyond the bright suns of Juan Ramón, Unamuno.
Dare we keep reciting their names?

Carmen Conde, ever the prolific writer,
settles into worm holes, jumping between lifetimes
into more welcoming futures for her, Amanda Junquera, and the cats.

All the young charges at the Residence of Señoritas
travel via spaceship, no longer bound by lightyears
of misogyny and yet to be realized dreams.

The prose and verse of “las Sinsombrero” shuttles between worlds,
precious sunbeams of resilience and tenacity
shining on the vanguard of aspiring artists.

The constellations of herstory move with the seasons,
the breezes of archival discoveries and news coverage,
a whole universe finally within her grasp.

Angela Acosta