Word Count: 267
There’s a cluster of stars like a mouth full of old broken teeth. Shadows of cloud push at the giant black maw. An octogenarian’s mustache.
It was decades ago, I remember, when I became friends with the night. The bigness of it astounded me. It spread from one end to another, filling in treelines and houses with its sticky tar that could only melt in the sun. I’d poke holes in its thick cover with the burning end of my cigarette. I’d call the holes stars, arranging them in line art of bears and large and small dippers. I really believed if I didn’t do this on a regular basis, they would seal and heal like a wound and soon disappear.
There was a man whom I loved long ago. He had shiny night hair and eyes like the pale blue of a sometimes moon. We would talk about things that we thought were important, like if God was a cartoon of man. We never came up with the answers, just more questions like seeds sprouting as soon as they hit the ground. I think now that there aren’t any answers, at least none that satisfy my confusion and turn it back into plain curiosity.
He left with a one-legged gypsy who taught him to dance. She asked him no questions, he told me, but accepted every new day as a gift.
I’ve had lovers since, some dark and intelligent, some sweet and simple to please. But I spend my days shaping clay into people and pots, and my nights trying to learn how to dance.
