Sing the Solar System
By Hannah Brencher
My favorite pair of arms perform a wondrous magic trick.
Arms with the mysterious ability
to hold you tight and let you go.
All in the very same moment.
My mother and her mystical arms pull me in
each morning
beneath the papaya trees. Eating toast and jam,
we brush watercolor beauty into my school lessons.
Name the colors of this sunrise, Little One. She asks of me.
Count the spaces between your fingers and mine.
Sing to me the planets of the solar system.
Hannah Brencher: She's the First Poetry Month Emcee, hannah@shesthefirst.org
Mercury, Mars, Venus, Earth,
Pluto, Uranus, Neptune, Jupiter, and Saturn.
All spinning beneath the papaya trees with me, mama,
and her Great Magical Arms.
Little One, she asked one day.
What do you dream to be?
When you gather up all your learning,
what do you dream to be?
A question that cannot be answered with counting or naming.
An answer that propels you
out to the stars
to spin and jig among the nine planets.
A difference, Mama. I answered.
I want to understand the differences of this world.
Grow big. Grow strong.
And then make the difference disappear.
Ah, Little One. She said turning me around to face her.
Her wrinkles whisper testimonies of great wisdom.
You can know the difference
and wash the difference away all at the very same time.
Simply walk 1,000 steps. And then walk 10,000 more.
Read this map I have drawn myself to find the one who looks just like you.
Look for the difference in her and when you find it,
there you will find all you dream to be.
And so I set out with the sun the following morning.
Coaxing it from its crouching position
behind the hills.
A Golden-Ray Travel Companion.
One Thousand Steps. Ten Thousand More.
Following a delicately drawn map,
created by the hands
of my Great Armed Mother.
And there,
by the brook that chattered as he babbled,
stood a girl
who looked just like me.
May I look deep into your eyes?
I asked the Young Girl.
Yes, you may.
She answered.
Deep Brown. The same as me.
May I touch your hair?
I asked the Young Girl.
Yes, you may.
She answered.
Rich and soft. The same as me.
May I ask you your name?
I asked the Young Girl.
I have many names, she replied.
But my mama calls me Little One.
Little One. The same as me.
Same Elbows.
Same Knees.
Same Missing Teeth.
Same Hairs On Her Head.
I am supposed to find the difference in you. I told her.
And yet I can find none.
You and I,
we are the same.
And so, together, me and my Same Girl laid down
beneath the blanket of the night sky.
Clouds for cotton.
Stars for buttons.
Friend?
She asked me,
her fingers folding into mine.
How did you find me?
I counted 1,000 steps. And then 10,000 more. I told her.
Counting. She repeated. I am sure I know nothing of that.
And then I read a map my mother drew for me. I continued on.
Reading. She repeated. I am sure I know nothing of that.
If you are looking for our difference,
it is sitting right here, friend.
I only dream to count and read, to sit beneath
papaya trees and name the solar system’s
Planet Children as if they were pupils of mine.
I am just one of many
Who aches for school books to hold
and a uniform to tug at the collar of.
I am just one of many who longs to recite poetry
And sing the solar system
as if it were my lungs’ favorite lullaby.
Hold your school lessons up to the sunlight, friend.
You will then see the difference that needs washing away.
I am the first you found, yes,
but I will be the first of many girls who are the same kind of different as me.
Begin with me? She asked. I am eager to begin.
And so there, beneath the blanket night sky,
we made a beginning.
The first beginning of many.
The First Beginning of Many.
I taught her Saturn. I taught her Neptune.
We counted the spaces between her fingers.
Then counted the spaces between mine.
For we had the same spaces. We had the same night.
We had the same stars and the Same Wide Eyes.
We had the same dream, the same Big Dream,
of seeing the difference between us fall away.
