I keep working my bare feet
up this cliff of purple light,
crimping fingers on gestating
stars, topping roofs, crossing
slabs bigger than our solar system.
I have light-years below me.
I barely remember Earth. Certainly
not the townhouse on Connie Ave.,
my two soft-skinned daughters
who howl in their beds, unable
to sleep despite blue nightlight
clambering up their white dresser,
spilling onto the singing dog,
brightening the car-and-wooden-
cookie constellation on their floor.
The Pillars beg for a drop-knee,
a heel-hook. I turn my hip and reach
for something small.
Kelly Dolejsi is a stay-at-home mother, climbing instructor, and occasional English professor. She earned an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College in 2003. Her work has been published in Bitter Oleander, Phantasmagoria, Trickster, and the Santa Fe Literary Review. She also has poems forthcoming in the Denver Quarterly.