Star Dust

The night domes, a Bach Fugue. One of us

lifts her iPhone like the Statue of Liberty. She

has an app that identifies the stars. "That red one?

That's Venus," she says.

We pause, expand.

Someone says he read somewhere that

all the elements came into existence at the Big Bang:

carbon, oxygen, the whole periodic table,

ashes from furnaces where stars died.

The atoms of our own bodies — found poetry,

sculpted from smithereens. We point, draw circles on the

Jackson Pollock sky, and, like children

who take turns cupping a flashlight in their hands,

we marvel how skin glows red as Venus.

Our eyes contain Cezanne apples, our bloodcells novels,

ideas doing performance art all around our DNA,

and someone says, "Joni Mitchell was right,"

and Hamlet, and Leonardo, and Thich Nhat Hanh.

Our parted lips accept the stardust,

and it seems, tonight, we are golden.

— Faith Paulsen

Faith Paulsen lives and writes in Norristown.