And so I asked her as we walked,
can you make out the scorpion?
What scorpion? All she saw was a scatter of stars.
Look at the bright red star, said I pointing,
that's the heart of the scorpion.
It's time to confess!
I pompously pointed out the names of constellations and stars
to impress my dates on moonless nights.
I still remember one of them well,
it was a night so clear you could see
Scorpius hook its stinger on a dark horizon-tree.
And so I asked her as we walked,
can you make out the scorpion?
What scorpion? All she saw was a scatter of stars.
Look at the bright red star, said I pointing,
that's the heart of the scorpion.
But her imagination did not equal the Greeks'
or even mine, and I fell silent thinking
if she cannot see the scorpion
she'll never see the lion, or the lyre.
She asked, isn't the red star Mars?
No—Antares.
Star of Peace!
I'd like to think so, but, well, she's more like
a bloated Titan,
who once had planets, her children, but dilating from dwarf to Red Giant
devoured them all.
It's pretty, she said,
and I agreed.