Orion
Maurya Kerr
Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest 2022 (view all the winners)
First Prize, Tom Howard, Poetry
Illustration by James Lee Chiahan
My boy came into the room and said, Mom, you are
the hound, Dad is the hunter, and I am the—
but he couldn't remember, so stood there, silent. I wanted
to know, but forgot how to speak, form my lips into
language, started to say dear or hart or mourn—even though
I knew that was wrong, knew I was messing up words, but
nothing more came out. In the second part of the dream he tried again:
Mom, you are the deer, Dad is the hounds, and I am the hunt—
but then stopped, shook his head, started over. No, you are the hunter,
Dad is the deer, and I am—he stopped again. No, you are
the hounds and the hunter, I am the dear. Then he walked outside
into the woods, the world. In the third part of the dream he was
standing in the yard, his back to the house. It was dark. Too cold
to be naked in the night—he needs a blanket. He was
looking up, still. In the fourth part of the dream he looked back as if
I had called his name, but I couldn't have—I had forgotten how
to speak, form my lips into language. He pointed up and I saw him
say, Mom, see it? Orion! How I wanted to know, see it all, but I
couldn't get past his body—when had he lost his baby fat? Where
was my little boy's body? In the last part of the dream he
flexed and cocked his muscles, agleam beneath the stars and said,
Mom, look, the Hunter! And he laughed and laughed and cried
and wept, falling to his knees in the cold dirt of a dark night.
