Constellations

　　by Steven Heighton

　　 After bedtime the child climbed on her dresser

　　 and peeled phosphorescent stars off the sloped

　　 gable-wall， dimming the night vault of her ceiling

　　 like a haze or the interfering glow

　　 of a great city， small hands anticipating

　　 eons as they raided the playful patterns

　　 her father had mapped for her - black holes now

　　 where the raised thumb-stubs and ears of the Bat

　　 had been， the feet of the Turtle， wakeful

　　 eyes of the Mourning Dove. She stuck those paper

　　 stars on herself. One on each foot， the backs

　　 of her hands， navel， tip of nose and so on，

　　 then turned on the lamp by her bed and stood close

　　 like a child chilled after a winter bath

　　 pressed up to an air duct or a radiator

　　 until those paper stars absorbed more light

　　 than they could hold. Then turned off the lamp，

　　 walked out into the dark hallway and called.

　　 Her father came up. He heard her breathing

　　 as he clomped upstairspreoccupied， wrenched

　　 out of a rented film just now taking grip

　　 on him and the child's mother， his day-end

　　 bottle of beer set carefully on the stairs，

　　 marking the trail back down into that evening

　　 adult world - he could hear her breathing （or

　　 really， more an anxious， breathy giggle） but

　　 couldn't see her， then in the hallway stopped，

　　 mind spinning to sort the apparition

　　 of fireflies hovering ahead， till he sensed

　　 his daughter and heard in her breathing

　　 the pent， grave concentration of her pose，

　　 mapped onto the star chart of the darkness，

　　 arms stretched high， head back， one foot slightly raised -

　　 the Dancer， he supposed， and all his love

　　 spun to centre with crushing force， to find her

　　 momentarily fixed， as unchanging

　　 as he and her mother must seem to her，

　　 and the way the stars are； as if the stars