by Ella Shively
to find the sky, I had to dig
beneath the toppled aspen tree
whose rotting galaxies
birthed mycorrhizal suns
that flourished and senesced
and were reborn again
as small, pale constellations
on a salamander’s back.
the glossy black of her body
glistened like the moonlight
used to glisten on the vernal pools
of her youth before the weight
of all the heavens fell
and settled on her skin.
and when I held her in my hands,
it was a grubby-fingered kind of love.
I thought, how strange:
the stars are slippery,
the universe is small.
Ella Shively is a writer and wildlife technician from Wisconsin, U.S.A. Her work has taken her all over the country, from the enchanted islands of Lake Superior to the lively wetlands of northern Florida. She is currently assisting with raptor monitoring efforts in the northern Sierra Nevada. Her writing has been published in Runestone Journal, Bracken, Prometheus Dreaming, and elsewhere. You can find her on Instagram and YouTube @ShivelyWrites.
