Inventory of Missing Stars

By: David Anson Lee

I inventory the stars every night, because they keep going missing. My telescope shows gaps where light once argued with darkness.

The government says it’s atmospheric error. My neighbor says angels. I say theft.

Tonight, a shape unlatches the sky and folds a constellation like cloth. Gravity hiccups.

A voice asks politely if anyone will miss it.

I think of sailors, myths, childhood wishes. “Yes,” I say.

The shape pauses, embarrassed, and stitches Orion back in place.

Tomorrow, the stars burn brighter, as if relieved.

I keep counting.

Because someone has to notice when the universe misplaces its miracles. Again.

© 2026. David Anson Lee

David Anson Lee writes from the borderlands between medicine and myth. His work explores ghosts, quiet wonders, and the strange logic of being human.

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