Hitch Myself to a Star: Raisa Tolchinsky

April 2, 2020 Kate Belew with Raisa Tolchinsky (Chicago)

Had to hang up the cowboy boots this morning, hitch myself to a star 
I saw falling over the city’s dimmed lights. It’s midnight now 
which feels almost the same as noon in this new life. 
In the darkness, I don’t mind the quiet. I remember 
loud bars, glasses of beer, now clicking my heels together three times 
but never making it home. I’m home now. I’ve been here for days
and wherever I go must be home, a makeshift shelter. 
I’ll tell my grandkids how I baked bread for nine days straight & the dog
wouldn't leave my side. Every loaf burnt. 
I'll tell them how that man built a chair with both his hands, to avoid stir--

he was made for moving across wide fields. It’s why I loved him.

There wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix— but this? 

There is no mending anyone's hands can move towards except 

through this space towards singing; voices switchback from window to window,

speaker to speaker. I press my hand against the glass 

to feel the night air on the other side, a sort of companion.

I hold my breath and let it go. I’ve done this spell before.