The Stars and the Moon

Grace Schulman

Scaling ladders with buckets of white enamel,

I painted the stars and the moon on my windowpanes

to hold back days and nights. I yanked the telephone

and stopped the wooden clock. The weeks a lightning stroke,

desire turned to love. With my blue diamond,

I sliced minutes in half and made days vanish,

fooling the hours.

                           I became so skillful

at firmaments that miracles occurred:

a bearded comet moved across the room

breeding no omens, tearing no major kingdoms

into small provinces, but there it was,

reminding us that rock may spin and flare,

lifting the senses, burning into sight.

You eased pale hands away; I saw your shoulders

recede through doorways, watched your image fail

with your famished smile. I left our room

with dream-filled eyes, and standing in the sun,

I gazed at bricks and glass and saw, suddenly,

flashing in stony light, the stars and the moon.