Ryan Varadi

Orion

Once, I boasted that I could kill
all life on earth. In the night sky,
I am surrounded—Lepus, the hare,
Taurus, the bull—but never reach
any prey. We grasp so little
of what we try to call our own.
You had two dogs, as I did.
You came home to find Canis Major still
as a portrait on the kitchen floor,
limbs splayed into a lopsided star. Later,
you learned of decay, the slow chiseling
of time on body. Canis Minor sat on the grass
and you pleaded for her to come inside,
for her legs to work just as far
as the door. Every so often, grief,
the scorpion, still finds you
in the smallest hours, under dim
starlight, and returns to you
that small sting of sadness.
Hold it cupped in your palm.
At least you know this will stay.

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Ryan Varadi is a poet, originally from Indianapolis. He holds an MFA from the University of North Carolina Wilmington, where he served as a staff member for Ecotone and Chautauqua Literary Journal.