Girl’s Dreams, Crestfalling by Carrie Chappell

Every time she yanked the metal chain, a bulb
                      spat beams, a few stars of slow

and sluggish light, in the underworld
                      of a La-Z-Boy recliner. Like a princess

or tyrant she sat telescoping the deck
                      for possums, raccoons, any glowing orb.

It became apparent that no longer would a god
                      in all nativity’s lawns deprive her

of the troves of girlhood’s treasure, nor of the sky. What hung
                      in her outcry was betrothed to sun as rocks are

to lifelessness. Silent in gravitas
                      and gravity. Alas, all sick with science.

In her swifter years, she grew to grow conspiracies,
                      carried them through the choral rings found only among

stars and webcams. Like a moon she wandered
                      Alabama in earth’s nocturnal course. But her mind

now pitied to the ground, worked its humble celestials
                      down to be loosed among the roots.

Below the trinket rocks, below the gaze
                      of owls, she turned her heart to teething things: worms spun

in trees, beetles lipped in mud. And for a time, she slept
                      in thorns, throes, and colding moons, until

one Van Winklian morning, she woke in a rip of grass
                      where, lo and behold, there ballooned a flesh of sky.