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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v102) (the January 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book It Was All Preordained (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 320 page January-April 2012 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book After the Apocalypse (poetry edition) (the 2012 poetry collection book)		get this poem collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Sky Elegy

Mary Stone

It’s the reason babies lie on their backs
arms raised above them,
tiny fingers swirling clouds into shapes,

as if a fingernail can scratch a black dot,
purple-red scrapes clotting the sky,
bleeding it, the scrape of fog
a screen curling over us.

We all dance and look up, hoping
the clouds move closer,
jazzing nocturnes with our feet,

the sweep and waltz of shadows, of night,
mapping the sky, as if we can see
all of it, the whole thing doming
beyond us, extending from one pink

sphere to another, our arms stretched
wide, we try to take it all in our arms,
teach each other how to point

to stars. Using our whole bodies
we lean into a hemorrhaged sky,
telescope our hands and eyes
until we see spiders falling, their legs

twisting, fangs out, or clusters
of worms dropping in the clearest sky,
until we see – what we want to see –

the lights, changing colors, the way
oceans gush to reflect certain silvery tints,
the way black is more like a shade of blue,
or purple, our views from the surface

flimsy and brittle, all individual perceptions
of what pushes at us from above,
knowing every direction is up

or north, that there are always lines,
edges, blurry directions to give, always
scorched borders to frame, always
horizons to discover and trace.

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