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O Come, Loud Anthems Let Us Sing

By Cynthia Plascencia From Issue No. 3

A man with hair like my father,

full of air and black,

lays a transparency sheet

over a picture of Jupiter.

Look how small you are,

says Science, pointing

to a kitten-tongue

smudge on the cloudy surface of Jupiter:

This is North America,

his thumb a big You Are Here sticker.

I stop at a crosswalk to hear the earth move,

and announce into the Maine air:

I know

I know

I know

I am small


do not matter

exist among the most minute

of existences

have no story bigger

than a fleck of white

pepper afloat in the snow

of one of Jupiter’s moons.

I am both comforted and scared,

like the bright red shimmer of police lights

through a stained glass window,

like unbuckling my seat belt

on the drive home to New Hampshire.

About Cynthia Plascencia More From Issue No. 3