Starlight by Lauren Scharhag

1989 cities, Tiananmen and Berlin, 

and my own humble metropolis, 

before people knew the necessity 

of green space, the moon was as close

to nature as we were likely to get.

Evenings on the patio beneath the orange glare 

of sodium arcs, days of concrete and exhaust. 

I used to get excited when I saw an apple 

in the grocery store, with a leaf still on the stem,

curled and brown as old parchment.

A teacher scolded me for handling 

the class hermit crabs too much. 

I was fascinated by such life.

Our parks were just squares of grass,

baseball diamonds, maybe an oak.

Squirrels chittered and titmice chirped

from the powerlines. Strays prowled 

the alleyways. In vacant lots,

copperheads lurked in the overgrowth,

and sharp and rusty things, 

and the invasive wild morning glories 

that overtook the chain link fence, 

common knotweed choking the yard, 

and dandelions, and gravel. An open 

fire hydrant was our river, the public pool 

a chlorinated sea, and the starlight 

reflected off the water in the glass

that I drank.

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 100 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, two Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com