Once when we were little
Mom guided us outside—
past Dad handing “little cigarettes”
to his friends from Mexico—
“Gloria” shouting from the record player—
she left us on the balcony and returned to their smoky haze.
Told us to search for stars.
Sisters in matching gold-speckled party dresses
out in the air
a thousand blinking lights
April asked where the stars were.
I moved her hand from pointing up to straight ahead and said
in New York City, April, windows are stars.