All night we try to pluck out constellations from our feeble knowledge of astronomy. There is no moon but there is light enough— The sky: black the mountains, blacker. I am certain this isn’t a dream, even though you can no longer corroborate this memory. Even though I’m left too many uncorroborated memories— I don’t recall a single word we spoke. My neurons are firing things at me now: interstellar travel, our latest loves, maya: the mother of illusions, but I know these are from other nights— Of this one I remember close to nothing. Stars jigsawed against the night. And us, acutely aware of them—
Vismai Rao’s poems appear or are forthcoming in the Indianapolis Review, RHINO, Salamander, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Kissing Dynamite, & The Shore. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and the Orison Anthology. She lives in India.