By Sarah Green

Featured Art by Ashura Lewis

I wasn’t convinced, when we drove to the lake
one night that last winter and pulled over,
that we’d arrived at what the paper told us
not to miss. Jupiter. Saturn. Two blurry dots
almost touching.

The blinking could have been anything—airplanes,
streetlights—but, too, the marriage
was failing. We tried once more to both believe.
The whole city was searching
but we were somehow in that field alone
peering up at two points suspended over the water.

Fatigued—that’s how I see them now—as if
relying on our looking to stay there.
And the Great Conjunction was us trying.

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Sarah Green’s most recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Sixth Finch, Ploughshares, and Pleiades. She is the author of Earth Science and is at work on a second full-length collection.