After the Gulf

sophie bernik

The nights I win are the nights I lose. When there’s the gentle snap of

the cicadas in the bushes outside the veterans 

bar. When there’s a breeze that’s not just blowing 

the heat back in my face. The nights cool down in time with the LED

lights that leave their ghosts on my eyelids 

and so when I shut them I see the word Closed 

written in red. The nights I win are the nights I lose. Somebody said

that once. Who was it again? A friend? Harry 

Reid? Doesn’t matter. Both, 

probably, are dead now anyways. The nights I win are the nights

I lose. A quote written on the whiteboard 

at an AA meeting, maybe. Not ever said 

out loud, but there to silently read to yourself as the minutes tick off.

Maybe it was a president. Maybe it was Bush, 

but not on purpose. He was caught, 

bashfully, admitting it. The nights I win are the nights I lose. When I was

a kid I wanted to be the president. 

But only because I wanted to be important 

and I had to imagine president was the most important job

in the world. The nights I win 

are the nights I lose. Fuck 

being president. Nobody likes 

those guys anyways. The nights I win 

are the nights 

the ground remains still 

and whole and the dust 

roads go undisturbed 

and so they’re not made of dust

in the first place. The sky is the only thing 

for miles, broad and pockmarked 

and so clear that every one of Homer's heroes 

is visible all at once. I learned 

how to locate myself by celestial

navigation when I was 

in middle school. I read in our History textbook 

that sailors needed to know 

how to navigate with nothing 

but the sky. I didn’t get it at first—how 

you could use the night sky 

like a compass when 

you couldn’t hold it 

in your hands. The nights I win 

are the nights I lose. I get it now. 

The stars are spitting 

and singing 

and spinning. 

They’re indiscernible from one 

to the other. Perseus is playing 

with pegasus and Canis Minor 

is in the maw of Canis Major 

and Sagittarius is arching 

its arrow at Orion and Cassiopeia is kissing 

Cepheus and Andromeda is still 

thrashing on that rock 

on the gulf 

and if I look up 

I’m holding them all in my hands 

and if I keep 

looking, 

they’re mine.

Sophie Bernik is a junior creative writing major at Interlochen Arts Academy in northern Michigan. Her work has previously been published or is forthcoming in Hobart, Identity Theory, and The Kenyon Review. She was in the top 0.5% of Florence and the Machine listeners in 2022 and owns 7 leather jackets.