Anne E. Michaels

Orion’s Belt

It is dark enough. Just.
He’s too young to watch the late night sky,
but we walk out together
past dusk, onto the cool grass,
leaves beneath our feet.
He’s wearing pajamas
under his coat. He thinks he sees
Orion’s belt, there; no, there.
It’s funny how, at first,
All stars look alike.

Our necks begin to ache,
so I lie down. Earth is cold.
I make a blanket of myself
to keep him from the chill.
His hair tickles my chin.
We find the Little Dipper first,
then the big one. The Drinking Gourd.
The Bear.

It doesn’t look like a bear, he says.
But there, those three bright stars
do make a shining belt in heaven.
His feet are cold, my muscles stiff -
we make an awkward constellation on the lawn.
He says he sees Orion’s dagger
hanging from the belt; perhpas he does,
his eyes are better than mine.
Still, there’s haze tonight
and too much glimmer from the city
and the rising moon.

I think about Orion, who cannot feel
the grass and cool leaves brush his skin or
a child’s weight upon his body.
I hold my son against myself,
against the cold, against the earth,
against the darkness.
And from this night on, the stars are different:
named, found, loved,
recognizable in their sky.