print previewback CHELSEA WOODARD
Hypatia
Searching the constellations for a sign,
I walk the jetty in the June-damp air. The lecture hall awaits;
the pressing hum of voices nearly stifles mine.
I look up always to the roof—ceiling or cirrus, star—my thoughts
are far-off. Formulas fog up my head. The books
I’ve never read pulse in their shelves, and tiny dots
freckle the blue-black spaces of the sky.
Casting aside their distant god, I’ve picked fixtures
I can touch: the chart and astrolabe, the cry
of gulls swooping for fish, scales, planets that glitter, words.
Searching the constellations for a sign,
I miss what’s written in the clouds, the falling shapes of birds. 
The Cardinal
Charis
Hypatia