DAY SEVENTEEN: How Everything Pulls Toward Everything, by Erica Charis

After Mary Oliver

I.

What
if you were
a star,
a collapsing cloud

of ionized gas and metal dust
held together
by gravity and chance,
and there you were

so many tons
spinning
maybe even
gravitationally bound to another

and billions of miles
away from your nearest sister?
And just as you began to fail,
to flicker

into the dark,
then heard
a thousand year old wish
whispered

by the lips of a stranger,
and what if you could
for that moment,
burn

a bit brighter
for the heart
long stopped
that was counting on you–

what would you feel then

of space

as, in endless night,
you floated there–

oh happy prisoner–
shining, glowing,
fusing
one heart to another?
II.

And what
if you were
a man,
and an odd star

and a heart full of curiosity and awe
had summoned you
out of the East,
and there you were

an astrologer
searching
maybe even
a little lost

and hundreds of miles
from home?
And what if you had tribute,
gifts for a king

days old but powerful
enough to strike
fear into Herod, himself
a puppet crown

of a eminent Empire,
and what if you had
a sort of dream,
a forboding

warning to return
another way
as unknown as the first,
begun months ago–

what would you think then

of fate

as, night after night,
you check the sky–

oh happy traveler–
seeking, following,
drawn
one wisdom to another?

III.

And what
if you were
a mother,
and a small child

lay in your arms sleeping,
suddenly real,
pushed from your body,
and there you were,

counting the fingers
grateful,
maybe even
still afraid something could go wrong

and the night sky
like a womb around you?
And what if you began to cry,
tears swelling,

in your eyelid’s cradle,
water breaking
onto the up-turned
face

of this strange gift,
and what if you had
a sort of blanket,
a cloth

to pull close
to his trembling
body,
helpless yet whole–

what would you see then

of love

as, hour after hour,
you lay there–

oh happy prisoner–
gazing, treasuring,
beholden
one being to another?