Orion

You’re sure if you squinted at the stars enough

heaven might notice the trowels, spoons,

tiny coins left in the dirt where you once

buried the ashes of the family dog. Daffodils

and grape hyacinths sent up their

green apostrophes the following spring,

and you once found a ring in a gardening glove,

sure it was sent by your dead father.

Now you do everything with your father’s

shield and sword in your hands, as if he bequeathed

them to you and you hadn’t really just stolen them

from a hope chest to remember the quest

of his imagination. You are still so far from guessing

the true meaning, but can point at the constellations

and rename them all: Falstaff’s Wrinkle, Circular Bear,

Skeezix and Threnody. You have something

to get you home safe and sound. You have

a belt full of tools at your hip as you stand  

in the center of your triangle of fire.