Find, if you can, the brightest stars—
her right shoulder, the toe of her sandaled left foot,
one on each of her hips.
Her halo has gone out. Stars flicker on and off
from her lifted wrist, her right hand raised,
index finger linking with thumb,
blessing the shining northbound lane.
How exhausting to be collimated.
She does not disperse,
intended for eternity.
I wish on slow nights,
she could extend her arm,
hitch a ride north
to the Waffle House, where the syrup flows
for twenty-four hours without stopping.
Give her a smaller miracle, lacking
loaves and fishes. Lacking a wedding without wine.
Let her heal the pothole just before the bridge.
She’s stranded in a field on a hill,
waiting for the moon to make
the cars into parallel arcs, star paths,
riding a silver-scratched record.
A turntable made out of the earth,
and she’s in the center,