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