stars

I find myself staring
in a lens, left eye squeezed,
right fixated on finding
Auriga among the asteroids.

I see my father eleven years
earlier, paralyzingly bright
under hospital lights
despite developing pneumonia.

Locating constellations
is arduous. I imagine
the stars huddled
as they attempt to survive
in space, hiding
from all that cold.

The day the doctors said
he’d be free, I waited
inside our house, gaze
on the front door,
watching for movement.

All I see is stillness
as I remember that most
stars have burnt out long
before we look at them.

The door knob turns.
My mother comes home
alone. My dad is dust,
leaving us huddled, frozen,
unsure how to survive
in all this cold.

AMANDA CONOVER is a queer writer based in North Carolina who frequently includes themes of social justice, mental health, and philosophical ideas in her work. She serves as the poetry editor for the Carolina Muse Literary and Arts Magazine and holds an undergraduate degree in Creative Writing from Elon University. Her poetry has appeared in places such as The Chaffin Journal and Bridge: The Bluffton University Literary Journal. Find her on Instagram and Twitter @amandamconover.