August 2, 2022 | Poem by Gabriela Turovsky | Illustration by Dominica Davis
This poem is part of Atrium’s Winter 2022 issue. To view the print edition online, visit our Issuu here.
This poem was written late on a bone-chilling night at the edge of Paynes Prairie as I lay on the waterfront shrouded in darkness. A single flickering candle cast its weary beacon of inspiration across the still-empty lines of my open journal.
The draft stung my face mockingly as if to mirror my outer body to my inner mind. I was particularly bitter that night — at the world for being so cruel and at myself for being so pessimistic. My sky was littered with milky stars while that of my mother’s homeland was (and still is) illuminated by missiles.
She emigrated from Ukraine at the brink of the Soviet Union’s collapse, before “Ukrainian” was an entity with which she could even identify. Summers spent on the Black Sea’s shores fueled my bedtime stories. I longed to one day witness these vivid scenes myself. To feel the Slavic sun warm the nape of my neck and to taste the carbonated Kvas that my mother used to sell straight from the barrel. This hope has now been uprooted, as has the soil beneath millions of Ukrainian homes.
That night, I saw my first shooting star. And then, it struck me. It’s not about the probability of a wish upon a star coming to fruition. It’s about having the ability to safely step out of our homes to a smokeless sky and do so. It is simply ungrateful of us, in such a place of privilege, to lose hope. Слава Україні.
Those Stars
and they glimmer with hope, those stars.
shining brightly — daunting the rest of us with their unwavering light
how can they be so naive?
so incessantly cheerful as they watch over all of the strife
that plagues the tainted world they tenaciously protect?
they anger me sometimes, those stars.
at times i wish the clouds were invincible to the might of the wind
so that they could eradicate the false hope perfunctorily
but what is a world without a little blind faith?
a solemn hunk of burning debris to ascribe a dream to?
i guess we need those stars after all.
-g.t.