Outpost

there should have been zigzags of green
lightening in the skies;
an unfamiliar outpost suddenly felt like home

with copies of the National Geographic
from the early 20th century;
a brown leather chair.

a floral rug.

there I would have gathered the stars like seed pearls
in old rusty buckets
left out all night.

or lingered at the screen door at nightfall in the rains
just breathing the ozone and the ionic plains
in the distances would be mine

though I would never try to own them;
the roses, sodden in the garden
weeping for what they were blind to.

so did I.

it is a velvet darkness
I said to my soul.
the farthest outpost.

all I will do is stare at the night
and remember old ghosts
rattling the bowls in the kitchen

to serve up the cherry vanilla
or radio shows, coming through.

or they will be right beside me
when I do-
pointing out to me again,

with oh, kind hands:
the constellations
as though we all started again.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2016