Perseid

Three of us in plastic chairs,
wearing all we brought, legs
under a quilt, tipping back.
The galaxy’s rim spins
above, silver churning
on starless black. That dark
is interstellar dust,
says my husband, not nothing.
I choose a black hole
in the wild white river,
and let my eyes unfocus
till stars at my vision’s edge
brighten and burn.
A rushing spark,
its wake glowing, vanishing.
Under the blanket, Jacob
squeezes my hand. Nothing––
no, another spark, another,
and on our right a flash
aims right for us
and goes out, burned to ash.

Selected by poet Michael Collier as winner of the 2012 Bethesda Poetry Contest
and published on the website of The Writer’s Center, Bethesda, Md.