At Seven

Poem of the Month

AT SEVEN

At seven, I couldn't close my ohs.

Amazements sloshed out of me;

each ache spilled a constellation.

Winter nights, I etched snow angels

and lay back in their wings to drink the sky,

but every time my heart rushed up

and I'd hurl helpless towards stars.

Who can feel small in the lap of the galaxy?

Never room enough for me on Earth,

amid the lurid orbits I could loom

a giantess; so loved among the thrum of stars

and the perfect order.

—Kristen McHenry