The Myth of Stars

The week after a man in a nondescript van snatches Maria,
Ms. B introduces a new game to your fifth grade class. She
tells you and Henry to stand across from each other. Then
she says, “Give each other a good look.” You don’t know
what a “good look” means, so you smile like an idiot facing a
firing squad. “Now turn around,” Ms. B says. Then she asks
you, “What color is Henry’s shirt?” You don’t know.
“Remember,” Mrs. B says, “Every detail matters. Knowing
the color of his shirt might help the police find him if he’s
ever kidnapped.” Your inattention to detail kills Henry.

Then comes the memory game. Ms. B says, “You need to
know your mom or dad’s phone number in case you need
help.” She points at different kids and asks, “What’s your
phone number?” You don’t know that, either. You know the
area code, which is as good as nothing, like language at a
funeral.

When the games are over, Ms. B says, “If someone tries to
take you, be loud. Kick and scream. Make yourself visible.
Be a shining star everyone can see.” Had she read Odyssey
Magazine like you, she would know the brightest stars in the
universe are dying. That wondrous light, its death rattle
unfolding over a million millennia.

In the Absence of God

Across from Yaohan Plaza, we await
a bus home on a rickety bench.
My brother’s toddler feet swing
above the pavement bespeckled
with gum and a riot of ants.
A smear of gold glitters under passing cars.
Overhead the pallid sky aches for color,
a canvas in want of paint.

Back on earth, an invisible hand hurls an egg.
It splatters across my brother’s lap.
With her bare hand, mom swipes it off him.
The yolk sluices down his pants.

Two blocks over, on Alameda and Sixth,
the road collapses, and our bus plunges
into nothingness.