Sister, aunt, mother of poetry comes for a visit, brings stars.
She looks for stars in the night sky pulled taut over my house, attached to the horizon like a parachute. All this falling, falling--of happiness burdened by desperate drinking and longing. She looks for the seven wives with onion breath, for the Milky Way which, say the Yokut, is dust from the race between antelope and deer, for the firelight in this burning house of Mars. But tonight cloud cover, the curtains drawn, stories taken on faith as we step inside for dinner. She checks again before dessert, and again after she reads her poems, lifeboats of language, arrays of cosmic life. As we are falling, falling, hanging on to the stars which billow and slow our descent with stories of bad breath and evictions, about loves that break at the slightest sight.