At the center the sun holds them
in their rounds, fast Mercury to far Pluto.
I held the edge
of the plywood as you pushed
the shrill saw through the wood
the way a father might push
through a crowd to find his son.
We painted that board the black
of space, and you helped me
paint all nine orbits white,
but Friday when I came home
from school ready to try
my small hand on the planets,
you had painted them all—
orange Mars, blue Earth,
and brown Saturn with its rings. You
smiled showing me each one,
but I cried and cried, “No, no, no.
What can I do? It’s supposed to be
my project. I can’t turn it in!”
Last night I saw that Neptune
will complete its first orbit
since being discovered, returning
to that place in the heavens where it was
first seen a hundred and sixty-four years ago.
That is a year that sweeps away everyone
on earth. You’ve been dead ten years,
and now I am the age you were that afternoon
when you stood before a boy in tears
and had no idea what on earth
you were supposed to do or say.
–
Matthew Murrey was a public school librarian for over 20 years. His book of poems, Bulletproof, came out from Jacar Press in 2019. He has poems recently published or forthcoming in Poetry East, Redheaded Stepchild, Split Rock Review, and Another Chicago Magazine. He lives in Urbana, Illinois, with his partner.