Inside the big house on Pine Street
blue light constrained by heavy curtains
and children leap from the arms
of a stuffed chair to the lap
of a blue sofa. In the sky a line
inches its way from the north star
touching every other star: yellow, blue
and red. The white stars turning off
and on behind each other suddenly connect
with the banister beside the stairway
a woman descends. She moans, holds
her head, grabbing her hair
with both hands, praying aloud,
almost a shriek. Her gown
slips the stairs behind her,
each step a waterfall. Invisible
the other woman she is calling follows
her into the kitchen bright with stars,
lit neon conductors. The dishes
on the sink and strainer
glow and slide down onto the floor,
whirl in quick circles around the room.
The refrigerator door slaps open,
light leaps out, like grease
staining her dress.
Eight children at the table wait
to eat. From the shrine of the tiny
freezer compartment a woman’s statue,
blue robed, leans out
and speaks: you are cured.