Enough Stardust

Actually, I’ve never wanted to jump from a roof to prove I might rise again. Especially now, all the old rules apply, even the hidden ones. Those tulips by the creek that erupt each spring aren’t doing it for me. Night doesn’t apologize for anything. And that moon? That snarling, wilted, moth-eaten moon? I don’t for one second think it’s following me home, even if my body contains the debris of stars. For company, I have the ringing in my ears. Or I can make a puppet from buttons and a lonely old sock. I’ll be fine. The world isn’t hungry for me. The hours don’t even know I’m here.

Kathleen McGookey’s most recent books are Instructions for My Imposter (Press 53) and Nineteen Letters (BatCat Press).  Her work has recently appeared in Copper Nickel, Epoch, Glassworks, Hunger Mountain, Los Angeles Review, North American Review, and The Southern Review.  She lives in Middleville, Michigan with her family.