The blueprints are locked in the drawer:
Circles, angles, smudges.
Try to deny its existence. I have seen it. 

For all of January you distort the world with your telescope.
The lost eyelash on my cheek: the rim of the Milky Way.
The silence of the room: deep space.
You devote this new year to emptiness. 

In Asuncion the sky will be clearer.
We can map the moon, I will teach you. 
I can read a key. I know north from south.
I know the distance to the moon, have measured the passing of time.

At the half moon you hint at the dial, 
Your index finger throws shadows. 
You claim you are an artist and this is your work. 
I also know how to chart lies. 

You etch the moondial with bits of charcoal on granite. 
You steal violets and hide tears. 
Deny your mother rests here, 
Tell me again how violets uproot and fall. 

You think I do not see the half moons under your eyes?
I have watched you study twilight walking through our yard—
The lavender shadow lighting your cheek. 
You say you are studying. I know you are waiting. 

The telescope, crumpled papers, bitten pencils, 
The universe you choose.

Marla Melito has worked in international public health, arts administration, and education, and has poems forthcoming in Greensboro Review, Gargoyle, and Hartskill Review. She is from North Adams, Massachusetts, lived in the DC area for 10 years, and now lives in upstate New York.