Untold Cosmology

by Ann Filemyr

Dogs growl. Cats purr.
The dull blade of the can opener
dents the soup can. Cream of mushroom.
Worn out metal teeth barely grip the lid.
We’re hungry and dig the thick goo out
trying not to cut our fingers on the jagged lip.
I leave one baby tooth beneath the pillow praying for fairies to leave their pot of gold. But the little hoarders hide what we want
in the rut of rainbows. Half moon shines
like a cracked quarter in the crowded sky.
We hide in the highest branches
of the backyard climbing tree
our bellies rumbling
trying to stay free from trouble.
Supper is late. No lunch.
The interior Gods of the house
determine these things
which we mere mortal children
have no control over. That’s when
a gigantic green meteor
streaks down practically hitting
the neighbor’s house, a boiling ball
of lime fire. We freeze, point, mouths
gaping like dead fish. No one sees it
but us shaking in the dusk of that trailing star. Dinner! Mother God bellows out the back door. Father God stomps out the front
the belch of his backfire
his tires spitting gravel
blue chicory blooming
in the ditch beside the foxtail.