The Astronomer
Before
I knew I couldn’t fly,
my father would bundle
my green corduroy coat
over my pajamas
and
take me into the January-cold front yard
to count the stars.
I leaned against him,
following
the
long arc of his arm
as he pointed up and up,
the stars springing from
his fingertips
to
spin hazily through the sweet smoke
of his pipe.
He named the
constellations, mispronouncing
words
he’d only read, not heard,
and said if he had a sextant
he’d teach me to
navigate
by
the night sky.
I knew if I let go of his arm
I would fall upward into
the heavens
and
soar, infinite as an angel,
Cassiopeia, Orion, Ursa Major
breaking
open beneath my belly.
My
sockless feet, frigid in their overshoes,
stood on tiptoe, but I did not quite
dare
to let go.
The
tweedy scratch of his jacket on my cheek
anchored me as sure as gravity
to him, the only solid
place
at
the center of the universe.
for Joe Pinto, 1917-1982