like a brooch in the air, smudge, haze, spiral on a core they once knew. Her mother sat in her chair, more lovely than the sea. The girl was all legs across the northeast horizon, in bed early like the children in the city now that the time had changed, falling back in fall so that it got dark early, and like the children, she wasn’t yet sleeping, head full of thoughts, the kind that keep a girl, not a child or woman, up all hours. The star called the head of the chained woman was the same as the one called the horse’s navel, horse born from the beheading of his mother, a spring of wings before suddenly flight. Her mother rested in her chair, looking at the inside of her eyes. The center of the horse connected to the girl’s mind with all its deep space objects: quintet, cluster, spirals, ellipses, and a cross in which a galaxy forms a lens across a quasar, gravity bending the light.
-- Angie Macri is the author of Underwater Panther (Southeast Missouri State University), winner of the Cowles Poetry Book Prize, and Fear Nothing of the Future or the Past (Finishing Line). Her recent work appears in Quiddity, The Southern Review, and Tupelo Quarterly. An Arkansas Arts Council fellow, she lives in Hot Springs.