as the sky whirls above us, i try to catch orion in my palms,

words by Vaidehi Bhardwaj, art by Jenna Clare Trinidad

                   hold him;

                   he slips

                 away like

                  water and

                fine wine.

                 where have

              you gone, orion

             dearest? i spend

             hours on a green

           towel in my backyard,

          searching for your realities above me-

         all i can see is ursa minor and the faint

        twinkle of the north star.

       i think of you, orion, straddling the moon,

     striding, arrow pointed to the skies seeking

    something or someone-

   there is no north star in your belt, orion honey-

                        only me 

chasing something that doesn’t exist.

when i saw your arrow last summer, for the last

time, it was pointed down at me, aimed, poised.

an accusation falling from the heavens, pinning

                 me to the ground-

              now, unseen to me,

            you tighten your

          bowstring, the twinkle

        of your eye cold, lurid. 

     distant from my green towel. 

   towards an unfamiliar dawn.