Mason jar beacons
and lawn blanket chairs,
we lie down and tell
each other’s cosmic fortunes.
You make up constellations
and create a mismatch map of stars.
I point out the Big Dipper
in the middle of your muddled chaos,
and you stop in mid sentence
to ask me to explain further.
I trace the line of the cup,
then I tell you about the bear-
Ursa Major.
I give her your name,
and a backstory
that dances faster
than a summer weekend
of trivia nights and late night
gossip and ice cream sessions.
You tell me that you are only a cup,
the ladle with a slow dip life,
and I tell you the cup
is the backbone for the bear.
Poetic Trials 