Frank Van Zant

Losing Touch With Orion The wife’s synaptic roots have been pulled from brainsoil by the List:        three kids, Brownies, Cub Scouts, piano & soccer, violin & basketball, t-ball, dancing, Little League, clubs, two full-time jobs, a husband who sings at the balcony of her skirt, desires her in an alleyway of bedclothes.          Crisis (I’m not exaggerating): she has forgotten her phone #. Stress.              And thus the husband looks up at October night, skin braced against hints of winter after indiansummer, warmth. He looks for Orion, that familiar skyface, the one he did the report on in fourth grade, the one who was banished to the sky by Diana for hunting her forests too recklessly, too selfishly, without a thought for her.       Orion, two stars as shoulders, two as knees, three stars in a belt across the waist, vague dust of light glowing in his head, bow arched, quivercluster hanging below,    who holds himself in a white fireframe of eternity, like sleep, who waits for her to take stock, find what’s been missing, gather in her living deer and make a psychic run for it toward forgiveness, togetherness. This is the way moonlight is reflected, yet held by, october leaves, hunterly stargazing, on this late night, my love.

Copyright © 1999 Frank Van Zant All Rights Reserved