The Sky

by Benjamin Grossman

is the oldest known adhesive: it was glue before glue was glue. Though how many eyes it has attracted is uncharted. But we know of the wishes it has stolen, of the prayers it has requested, of the offerings it has swallowed. How can we not describe the sky as anything other than bipolar? From yellow to red to blue to black it flutters at the speed of a chameleon. No relationship could withstand such degrees of fire and ice, and yet the sky stands with the unflinching determination of a painter’s canvas. When fireworks heave it remains unmoved. When an orgy of gods built their homes amongst its vastness and humans renamed it “the heavens” it complained no more than a tree, rather it protected the dead from the horrors of homelessness.