Like A Star

Like A Star

I’m just a little Russian girl, too small
to be seen, too still to be spied,
too watchful to be calm. Plucked off the
slush-choked streets of old Moscow and hurried
to a warmer, slightly brighter place,
I learned to trust the men, their patient hands,

the regular food. I’m just now three years on this
tortured orb, and I cannot speak
the words of men, but I can moan and I
can whimper and I can make my needs known.
And the serious men have been so light
with me, scent of cucumbers and tea and fish

and vodka on their exhalations, kneeling
before me to take my soft face
in their hard hands. And when will it
end, I’ve wondered on so many twilights,
mistrusting the comforts and the care. When
will I again make my bed against

a brutal stone building, or search for the
dropped scrap or the offered crust?
Yet, I have slept in a soft bed and eaten
from my own plate – sharing it with none! –
and been bathed and sported with them until
I squealed. This morning – perhaps it was late

last night – they came and poked me awake and smiled
down into my heart. My sleep has been
so sound in the last little while that I
often fail to sense the lights hum to
life. They lifted and carried me to the
room where we’ve spent so many merry

hours, games where they stuck wires to me
or spun me about. But this time they were
serious and quick-motioned, and I know
those traits well enough to be still
and full of eyes. They never hurt me, though,
except for the insect-bite of a needle,

and then I wanted a nap like I never
did before, so I dozed. And when
I awoke, I was in this carriage, belted in
and collared up and thirsty, so thirsty.
I looked for the man who’s always brought me
my water pan, but I couldn’t make him

out among the others, so I put
out my tongue to show them. But no man
saw my signal, so I sat in my
place until the entire room began
humming and pulsing, and one of the familiar
faces appeared before me and lowered himself

and whispered and whispered words to me and scratched
my ears and backed away. A door was closed
and there was a clang and a click,
and little lights came on in the stifling
tiny room, and the shaking got worse,
and I began to cry as it shook

more and more and more – and then there was
a sound like thunder over the alleyways
in the summertime, and I felt
as if I were being pushed through the
floor, bottom first. It frightened me
and it hurt me and I cried out,

hoping and waiting for the little
door to open and my friends to reach
their white-sleeved arms for me, but it never
did and they never did. I think
I went to sleep for a little while,
and when I returned to myself,

eyes as dry as my tongue, the pain
was gone and the noise was mostly gone,
and the tiny lights in the room
were dimmer because there was – what was it? –
a greater light outshining them. I saw
then that there was a little window,

an odd pane above my head, and the
light outside was like the light I’ve seen
while sleeping in the brickpile on autumn evenings,
and the light was high above me, and
before I could feel joy or comfort,
I began to fear again. Fear

because I was having trouble drawing
in my breath, and it was summer-hot
in the little room, and I cried
out for water, but the light grew harsher,
and the heat grew sharper, and I opened
my jaws to call out, but found myself

singing to the great light above me
in its fourth journey across my vision,
and all of me seemed to rise and join
with it and my voice was – is –
very strong. I believe I will be
heard, and I believe I will thirst

no longer. If only I can get back
to those who kept and carried me, those
who smiled at me brightly enough to make me
shiver with the only happiness I’ve ever
known. And now I am rounding down
To the spot where cool waters rush.

~ S.K. Orr