Poetry: “Stars as my soul” by Liz Davis
“I think, Oh my goodness that’s the voice of a god,” writes Liz Davis in “Stars as my soul,” which takes us on a journey from the speaker’s childhood in the 90s all the way to what is presumably present day, when they are thirty-nine, watching a movie. The poem holds Optimus Prime, the Transformer, as a throughline, a kind of symbol to track the way that our relationship as human beings to the concepts of youth and childhood shift and change as we ourselves barrel forward through life. The idea of “coming-of-age,” is redundant, since there is no specific age we’re heading—there are a variety of markers that could signify adulthood, if we really think about it, and some of them contradict each other, but the beauty of Davis’ work is the irreverent and silly tone it takes, the hopeful, cheery tone, willing to laugh not only at others but at herself and her own gut-punch, involuntary reactions. Davis surprises herself and then she surprises the reader. The poem feels honest. We shouldn’t take ourselves so seriously all the time. Take a page from Davis once in a while. There are plenty of opportunities to work hard and do good but once in a while we all deserve to take a moment and just breathe before we start again. Davis gives it to us straight: “I am wide open as a child.”
i.
I love Germán, the boy from Brownsville, so well
Back in 1990. Times when he plays Transformers
Beside my brother Josh on the carpet. The pair,
Buddies elbows in the pretend dirt trenches,
In front of the television Sunday mornings
While Mom watches from the kitchen sink
Alone as she rinses out a can of blueberries.
Oh, how I love Germán’s cleft chin
Set hard in a too-old-for-a-young boy grimace.
And Optimus Prime says something heroic
About freedom for sentient beings.
I watch Germán’s dimples appear as the black and
Yellow figurine he holds ascends coffee table corners.
ii.
Thirty years later, three thousand miles from home,
I go shopping for my nephew, Josh’s little boy.
I hear plastic packages crackle as the tiny hands of children
Pirate toys and then go bouncing along toward registers.
Suddenly, an unforgettable voice carries above all the noise:
“I have witnessed their capacity for courage,” says the display
Robot at the toy store in New York. He announces his person.
To the stars think of one of them as my soul.”
I think, Oh my goodness that’s the voice of a god
And for moments I am stunned, shocked standing inside
A crowd of suddenly still, speechless children.
“He sounds like my dad,” someone whispers.
iii.
Back home years later, I walk beside Mom
At the Farmer’s Market. You are in my head,
And I look for you everywhere. Mom and I talk
About taking a trip to the island. I say, “Did you
Ever think it’s only white people there? Why is that?”
Then, we wonder about Josh and his family.
Boy, we are missing them when we see a person
Wearing a towering, plastic Bumblebee suit.
They are all sharp edges and rigid shelling.
And they can’t talk! Because of their helmet!
I watch as they reach out into the crowd—
Voiceless!—
And pull a woman, maybe in her eighties,
Into their arms. They hug her as she laughs,
Shaking her head at the silliness.
iv.
When you text me. You say, “Let’s go to the movies.”
I look around the room, an unthinking reaction.
Imagine! Watching a whole movie while anticipating
With pleasure a date at another movie!
In the previews, I watch as Sentinel Prime says,
“You have proven yourself worthy!” I am thirty-nine,
And I think, Maybe I can make it in love again.
Marvel at the coincidence—we are one, you and I,
In terms of Saturday night experience. In terms of
Stardust. After, I walk into the evening, the late July moonrise.
The sky is big, and I am wide open as a child.
Liz Davis
Liz Davis is from San Antonio, TX. She holds an MA in literature from Texas State University and an MFA in fiction from NYU. Currently, Liz has several poems and two chapbooks in submission. She works as a Registered Behavior Technician (RBT), supporting children with autism through Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA).
