How small we are when compared with the sun, the narrator booms.
Earth’s a tiny hole in the magical ceiling. Earth’s a green booger
in the corner of God’s eye that he flicks away. He’s lefthanded,
lonely, and ridding himself of this mishandled project. Who
could blame him? With my chair reclined, I witness
the constellations dance, and God’s somewhere knowing
that I’m an ant—scurrying from one project to the next,
one hill to another, yearning for fulfillment. In the morning
I swipe away sleep from my eyes with a tissue, and then
I shower, dress, drive, type up meaningless words to answer
dozens of emails. I devolve into a bloated overfed,
over-caffeinated maggot accumulating all I can
in my nest knowing that someday everything will be
sold, and I’ll decay—it will be as if I never existed, never
woke from that sleep, never consumed, created, or replicated
more like me that once depended on my body—circling
me like the moon hangs onto the Earth—and then
like everything else they too will disappear.
I’ve brought my children to see these stars.
The universe doesn’t make promises.
Beautiful how the projectors can simulate the night sky.
About the Author
Cat Dixon is the author of What Happens in Nebraska (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2022) along with six other poetry chapbooks and collections. She is a poetry editor with The Good Life Review. Recent poems published in Thimble Lit Mag, Poor Ezra’s Almanac, and Moon City Review.