My eyes stretched up
hoping to see art
on a smooth black smear
in tiny white pinpricks. I
stared there until fine horse hairs
brushed watercolor blindness over my search.
So I sent my ears up. I thought maybe:
the lovely, too-loud laughter of my mother
or soft notes my father sent with me to sleep,
whispered somewhere between the layered
lights above my head–but all I heard was the
thrum of my own spinning question.
So I asked instead if they were kind
and the stars fell out of their sky
to land in the slick
Constellations resettled in soft
silt as I leaned over my toes to meet
the stars in my shape. Bright dust
swirled to thoughts millions of light
years away and revelations embraced in
my eyes, running down my cheeks to
join the moments which streamed past
my fingers. I felt smooth faces, free of fault and
feature, mouth words of comfort into my palm.
They promised me
one day and today and
every day I asked.
So with gentle fingers, I pried my little puddle
from the pavement outside my parents’
home. I tucked it safely into the pocket of
space just above the compass inside
my chest and tiptoed
back to bed.
"I'm inspired by the difference between the world inside my head and the words I have to share it, and I write because I love the challenge of pressing my ideas into paper," says Meili, a seventeen year old from Minnetonka, Minnesota. She hopes to continue pushing herself and her writing to new places, one day publishing her own book of poetry.