Ursa Minor

All day for four days I thought it was raining,

and the lie has kept me company;

an excuse to stay in as the world rockets forth

in a finite trajectory.

My aim ten years ago was an arrow

that sparked in my hand.

All arrows want to know the inside of a bear’s skull –

the constellation of thought unraveled,

displaced from its dictionary of stars.

If I let go the string, dare I watch for failure, or for death?

A fifth day of rain, or stars?

Leah Welch studied poetry at Chatham College and is currently residing in Los Angeles where she writes poetry, plays, and screenplays. She dreams of finding a dog and owning a truck.