Nebula

by: Rebecca Alterman

Lying atop flannel sleeping bags,
we flopped, stranded fish,
stomach to back, back to stomach.
My mother slept beside me, her breath, regular,
like the swelling and constricting of the ocean.
My father lay at my left, damp arm against my arm,
eyes fixed on the open tent flap above.
That’s Orion, he whispered, and there’s his belt.
I watched the seven sisters cross the sky
until my father nudged me, Wake your mother,
and we emerged, newborn to the night,
onto the sand.

Crabs skittered sideways as far as I could see,
their eyes detached and luminous
like crazed stars fallen from the sky.
Our footprints disappeared as quickly as
the crabs to their crumbling holes
and the beach dulled to the gray
of the slowly shifting ocean.