Star Story

Evelyn Milburn

Orion trudges in, takes off his belt,
unbuckles his scabbard,
smooths the silky skeins of nebula, and sets it down.
Betelgeuse shines crimson at his shoulder,
Rigel ice-blue at his foot; he kicks off his sandals,
sending Rigel spinning across the room
to lie glimmering in a corner.
His dogs trot past him and flop,
tongues lolling, by the fire.
Procyon rolls and squirms, scratching the itch
of tiny fleas through her shimmery fur,
then flips to her feet and bites at her collar.
She is just a pup.
Orion unbuckles her collar,
does the same for Sirius, and sits, sighing.
It’s been a long night.
He runs his fingers through his hair,
catching stardust in his hands and brushing it to the floor.
The Milky Way is so dusty this time of year.
The bears sleep, snoring soundly, in the corner;
big Ursa, shaggy fur like moss and dinner-plate paws,
with mighty claws that gleam as black
as darkness between stars,
and her tiny cub, golden fur still downy and dewy,
already webbed with galaxies.
Across the room sit Castor and Pollux,
crowns cast off, and all the Seven Sisters,
playing dice.
Pollux rolls, the dice teeter to a halt–
snake eyes.
He whoops and smacks the wooden table.
Castor groans, the Sisters laugh,
then catch Orion’s eye and turn their heads away.
The stars on their brows cast strange shadows across their faces.
Alcyone strokes the ears of the bull that lies at her feet,
huge and red, horns burnished and hooked in evil points.
Orion leans back in his chair, closes his eyes.
All those stars are heavy,
is what they never tell you.