Southern Skies
by Carol Hamilton

Below evening and the Equator
Orion walked upside down.
The rest of night formed
no familiar patterns.
We shared one darkness
with only smudge pots
and a medicine man
telling our fortunes
with silver-backed coca leaves.
Had we sat in circle
below the greater dark
we might have looked
into terrible distance
and pulled it down close enough
with our own stories.
We might have domesticated
the too vast anew.
But what can we tell,
we with our galaxies
of mall lights and sports stadiums?
Our tales, like theirs,
might speak of hubris,
of monsters blotting out
both mystery and sky.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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