To Ithaca

Gabriel Olearnik

It is the Silver City. It cannot be visited.
Season of the Mists

It is the Silver City. But it is not made of silver
silver would have frozen to grey ash
silver would have burned to grey ash
silver is too febrile an element
to bear the fever of feral stars
and we would never have made harbor.
But it is a good name, and the men love her.
Her lines stretch for a star-league
From the rough trim of the plasma coils to the sharpness of the arkspires
The arboretums, studded like lapidaries across the hull
The star-sails folded for a hundred kilometers
Catching the faint breath of light
And what light—
If you could step inside the conduits
The prism of perspisteel would turn the water platinum
You would forget everything on Earth.
We will fulfill the covenant and sow the galaxy with man
Until children are as many as the stars
And spread beyond the nav-charts
To see the edge of the real
until creation is renewed.
We have a vampire thirst to slake
I will quench it with the next star
Drink it in with the light of Ithaca.