"Mira" by Milena Makani
Caroline Chou | Two poems
planetarium
“So how… does the brain, which lives without a spark of light,
build for us a world of light?” – Anthony Doerr
in the flickering dark, search
for LEDs that spell out the big dipper.
in this solar system,
bits of pockmarked rock shimmer
inside glass cases and
everything is deserving of meaning.
look at the face
in the styrofoam carving
of the moon. look at the faces
everywhere.
once upon a time, you told me
not everything has to tell a story
but isn’t there something to be said
about how the crowd’s reflections melt
like paint strokes across the tile floor,
how that miniature spaceship in the corner
was sculpted to scale for a launch
that will never come, how the child
toddling into this room now believes
it is her whole galaxy?
space is quiet but not truly silent
and she swears the LEDs on the ceiling
can speak. on the wall, a plaque
reminds us that this is all we’ll be
someday:
dust floating through space,
the air so thin you can’t
think to breathe.
no one left to tell this story,
no stars left to see. and yet,
the big dipper glints above
and you are in my orbit.
and if none of this matters then
why do we chart
ghosts made of gas
and collect fallen rocks and
mistake someone’s face
in a crowd, reach out
and close a hand around
empty air and why do we ever
look up?
build for us a world of light?” – Anthony Doerr
in the flickering dark, search
for LEDs that spell out the big dipper.
in this solar system,
bits of pockmarked rock shimmer
inside glass cases and
everything is deserving of meaning.
look at the face
in the styrofoam carving
of the moon. look at the faces
everywhere.
once upon a time, you told me
not everything has to tell a story
but isn’t there something to be said
about how the crowd’s reflections melt
like paint strokes across the tile floor,
how that miniature spaceship in the corner
was sculpted to scale for a launch
that will never come, how the child
toddling into this room now believes
it is her whole galaxy?
space is quiet but not truly silent
and she swears the LEDs on the ceiling
can speak. on the wall, a plaque
reminds us that this is all we’ll be
someday:
dust floating through space,
the air so thin you can’t
think to breathe.
no one left to tell this story,
no stars left to see. and yet,
the big dipper glints above
and you are in my orbit.
and if none of this matters then
why do we chart
ghosts made of gas
and collect fallen rocks and
mistake someone’s face
in a crowd, reach out
and close a hand around
empty air and why do we ever
look up?
dial tone
it’s 4 AM and if I give it a couple hours,
birds will perch on power lines and sing.
maybe the rain will let up and the mist that follows
will smudge the pencil lines out of the landscape,
peel back a new shade of blue.
but for now, the only color out tonight
gleams in the silver crescent that forms as I hold the phone to my ear,
because I called and you always answer on the first ring.
in my lap is a pool of silhouettes and streetlights,
rain and more rain and all those thoughts you think but never say.
how are you? and already the pool is growing deeper because
since when does anyone ask exactly what they mean.
we talk about new cities and sisters and problems with sleep like how
you get up too early, while during the day, I can scarcely stay awake.
diurnality is a social construct, I say, though what I mean is I want nothing to change.
some nights I think I’ve matured in retrograde, amassing a hunger
greater than myself, swallowing silence the way you take pills
as though it can cure this aversion I’ve grown to letting go.
that one summer at the lake, I held my breath for thirty seconds
but now, I hold it for a lifetime.
I’ll let you go now, and I know I’ve gotten better at lying too.
tell me if I exhale, the years will fly backwards like dandelion seeds
and everyone will be back together and it will all feel the same.
I swear that this time, I’ll believe it when you say this moment will never come again.
what I meant to say was I miss you, what I meant to say was please call me back
birds will perch on power lines and sing.
maybe the rain will let up and the mist that follows
will smudge the pencil lines out of the landscape,
peel back a new shade of blue.
but for now, the only color out tonight
gleams in the silver crescent that forms as I hold the phone to my ear,
because I called and you always answer on the first ring.
in my lap is a pool of silhouettes and streetlights,
rain and more rain and all those thoughts you think but never say.
how are you? and already the pool is growing deeper because
since when does anyone ask exactly what they mean.
we talk about new cities and sisters and problems with sleep like how
you get up too early, while during the day, I can scarcely stay awake.
diurnality is a social construct, I say, though what I mean is I want nothing to change.
some nights I think I’ve matured in retrograde, amassing a hunger
greater than myself, swallowing silence the way you take pills
as though it can cure this aversion I’ve grown to letting go.
that one summer at the lake, I held my breath for thirty seconds
but now, I hold it for a lifetime.
I’ll let you go now, and I know I’ve gotten better at lying too.
tell me if I exhale, the years will fly backwards like dandelion seeds
and everyone will be back together and it will all feel the same.
I swear that this time, I’ll believe it when you say this moment will never come again.
what I meant to say was I miss you, what I meant to say was please call me back
Caroline Chou (she/her) is a writer from Maryland currently studying at Georgetown University. A Best of the Net Nominee, her work can be found in Rising Phoenix Review, The Aurora Journal, and elsewhere. In her free time, she fills playlists with film scores and bedroom pop.
Milena Makani, born in 1984 in Sofia, Bulgaria, is a German contemporary artist based in London, UK. Makani’s deeply psychological paintings depict inner landscapes characterized by layered textures, fluid forms and gradients. Employing acrylics, watercolours and inks on mineral stone sheets, she blends control and spontaneity through the interplay of organic process and manipulation. Makani lives with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome - a source of constant pain. Her works channel the mindfulness, gratitude and energy of her lived experience, as she investigates themes of resilience, serenity, joy, stoicism and fragility.
The German artist has exhibited her work in the UK, Bulgaria and Iceland and her paintings are featured internationally in various private collections.
The German artist has exhibited her work in the UK, Bulgaria and Iceland and her paintings are featured internationally in various private collections.
