KEVIN PRUFER
ASTRONOMER’S PRAYER
The lens fell out of the telescope.
The stars, by themselves, don’t know a thing,
but
constantly recede.
They ache in their redshift, they move quietly off
like a host at a party, drink-in-hand, introducing his guests
then stepping away.
Pinwheel,
lamp-glitter in the glass of wine—
the stars are inaccessible,
touching
their lips
to the snow where the grass pokes through, touching their lips
to the window panes.
Without
telescopes, we are thrice removed:
There are, first of all, the stars themselves, wrapped
in their recession. Then, our weak eyes, which cannot find them.
I think, also, we would look for them where they aren’t,
which is our impulsive translation. The arc of the wineglass
near its stem sends the lights in the room
to
curving.
With the naked eye, I would look for stars there—
out of necessity, as if I had a prayer,
as if I could drink them.
It’s good enough, the finger bone
my brother uncovers at the site.
It’s very white, a frosty white and cold.
Pale comma in the ground, insuck of breath,
pause, buried thought, the finger bone,
good enough—printless, but neanderthal.
All day he’s labored at the trench
till now. He wipes his brow. The sun
was very white—is setting now.
He lifts the bone with the tip of his spade,
sets it in a cardboard box. He flags
the site—good enough to think about
as he rolls into dream that night,
the sleeping bag twisting at his ankles.
And cold and frosty white the stars
spin upward in the sky. What will you do
with that box of bones? they ask. Are they
good enough to plant, those very white seeds?
What color will the flowers be?
