When The Sky Spilled Its Letters

The night unfastened itself,
buttons of stars scattering,
as if the firmament had grown impatient
with holding the story in.

I stood on my porch
with a cup of tea,
listening for the scrape of truth
in the wind’s throat.

A comet spelled my name in a hand
I almost remembered,
looped silver script
curling like the hair I once cut away
after grief took root in my scalp.

The moon sat low,
sliding vowels into my pocket,
and consonants warm as bread from a kitchen
where no one had ever died.

When morning came,
I stitched what I could recall
into a small banner
and hung it in the doorway,
where neighbors paused,
looked twice,
and asked if they were welcome here.

I told them yes,
but only if they left their certainties outside,
to be rinsed clean by the rain.