Glow-in-the-Dark Stars

Tired, determined, desperate to please,

Mom’s hands fold paint over possibility;

white slate ceiling develops rich hues of indigo, 

watching over my sister and me.

Looking up now, I snort, sweaty brow painted beige,

regretting such an unforgiving color.

Who let kids pick, anyway?

Kids are fickle. They certainly don’t realize just how dark 

the room can get when purple-striped shades are drawn,

and dusk is cast over matching quilted twin beds and tacky 

dressers with funky, neon flowers that bloomed in all seasons.

Neither of us were fond of the deep-dark. 

We tell Mom as much when morning comes.

Ever the solutionist, sore shoulders scatter the ceiling

with cheap plastic stars that vowed to protect us from the night.

Ripples of artificial jade arranged with no pattern

fictional constellations that my sister and I traced until we fell silent

or they lost their mighty grip on the heavens and found 

themselves scattered across muted-green and superbly stained shag carpet.

They’d all fallen now, and what hadn’t, 

my sister and I scraped away to prime, to wash away

the traces of the small universe that once sheltered us,

negotiated who will roll paint stick around the ceiling fan.

Noticed a dim speck in the corner we’d missed.

In it we’re crossing wands and declaring Ken King of Barbietopia, 

letting the theme song of Full House lull us to sleep,

finding common ground in the mess of our parents failed marriage,

and riding static-furred horses until we’re called to dinner.

I miss those starlit nights; miss the way my sister would yell

at me to breathe a little quieter, hiding my DS beneath the sheets

and sending secrets across pictochat— even the night we 

rearranged the room thinking our Mom wouldn’t hear 

the mountains we moved. I miss being so close to heaven.

But as long as we’re together, no matter how much 

ecru we slabbed over navy,

if you pick at the paint enough,

our tiny galaxy is still beneath it all,

bidding to glow.