A Lesson in Astronomy

     by Mimi Ferraro

The doctor intones something about stroke, ruptured artery, 
base of brain Circle of Willis; I imagine some remote galaxy, 
struggle to understand the celestial storm inside your head. 
Orbits wobble, neutron stars collapse; sun, moon, planets, 
the future string in elliptical orbit across night sky. Eight 
hours of surgery later, you survive— shaved head savage 
reminder: cruel stitches, crescent moon scar seared behind 
ear, along temple, right side of scalp. One week passes, two.  
Antares spins in Scorpio. I cling to Pleiades, like you cling to 
waking mind, hope of recovery. Slowly, past stutters awake.  
You remember an Aunt long departed, battle demons in a 
hotel room in 1987, recall a past Quinceanera dress in detail: 
flower swirl of pink, white, lace.  Become unrepentant rehab 
renegade: make early a.m. forays into staff kitchen, have 
secret conversations with your horses; in the quiet of your 
lonely room solo dance wind chime arpeggios, dream of 
home.    Spring.    Comets, meteors, trail pale raking 
sleeves, quarks spray—phenomenon, like destiny, leaves its 
mark.  Home two weeks, you circle the yard, cigarette in 
hand, dogs at heel; body lists at odd half mast, gait slightly 
lurching, but steps getting stronger. You turn, raise hand, 
wave.  Arcturus brightens in rouge-pink sky.  Overhead  
Mars Jupiter   beam    lost  resplendent jewels