When I’m playing with the end of my rope, I turn on the NASA channel. Let it flicker meditative as a prayer. The earth is always just where I left it, rolling over in its cosmic bed. Snug under swirling blankets. Watched over by stars and planets. Above, slow-circling presences, the moon, and other agents. The showers. The extinguishments. The meteoric blazing. I see the sun, impermanent. I see the sun, ageless. I drink the dark, it’s deep as grace, unfettered and persuasive.
Ren Pike grew up in Newfoundland. Through sheer luck, she was born into a family who understood the exceptional value of a library card. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Train, NDQ, Orson’s Review, and Juniper. When she is not writing, she wrangles data for non-profit organizations in Calgary, Canada.