My mother remembers teaching herself
how to draw stars on a foggy window
when she was five, fifty-five years ago.
Most of us look to the sky for release.

My neighbor, at dinner, proposes that
we are but molecules. That perhaps our
universe exists as one fabric weaved
into a shirt and our beyond just wool.

Many places are full of deity-obsessed 
persons regardless of their unique terrains.
They want to praise something.
Should Earth become empty, dust is just dust.

What would you do if you were left alone
in a museum?          Would you take a nap?

Emily M. Goldsmith is a queer Cajun poet from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She currently lives in Lexington where she is a second-year MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Kentucky and the editor of New Limestone Review. Her work has appeared in Entropy, Fine Print, YesPoetry, Witch Craft Magazine, and others.