Long after nightfall, my father parks
the Ford in the driveway of our new house,
just blocks from Noter Dame.
A quilt of snow beds down the rooftops.
The street glistens with ice
under the glow of lamplights.
It feels like Christmas but it’s February.
I leap from the car to the white spears hanging
from windows, snap one with an ungloved hand,
lift up my face to the stars, the dagger
melting in my hand, trickling down my forearm
into my sleeve, soaking my sweater, but my gaze
stays pinned to the blaze above and my body
starts a spin to take them all in. Like a skater,
I hold out my arms as if to welcome all those suns
into my life, clutching the spear as if it were a wand.
I forget about my cold, wet sweater and spin.
I do not yet know the earth too spins under me,
and so the moon and planets and sun, each spinning
around itself, each in its own orbit around
the others, all of us together,
my family, the earth, the galaxies,
all at our own paces, spinning,
pushing into the darkness,
where there is absolutely nothing
until we get there.