Zodiac

It's not often
that I walk outside at night
without the comfort of streetlights and porch lamps
or, moving downtown, the glare
of restaurants
and offices lit for the cleaning staff.
I'm used to neon
hung in windows, dripping lurid pools
of color on the sidewalks.
Driving, I don't even adjust the mirror
to dim the reflection
of the highway behind me.

So, at the picnic table by the lake
my head on your lap
late at night, blanketed in darkness
we listen to the students below.
They've snuck out after curfew
to smoke cigarettes begged from seniors
to discuss the mystery of life
who turns out to be a boy named Derek.
We breathe silently and speak
in less than whispers, hoping
not to give ourselves away.

I've never seen such darkness before.
or so many stars
and I recognize constellations for you
the dippers
Orion
and Casseopia.
I murmur their names in your ear
and make up others:
the stingray
Portia, the seamstress
spider's web.

The girls sneak back to their dorms
walking right past us, long-legged,
athletic, sure of their footing along the forest path.
Across the lake
someone lights a hurricane lamp on their porch
and for a moment
the beam blinds me.

--Vance Briceland

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