We sleep under twenty four Ohio Stars,
a quiet astronomy of triangles and squares.
It takes more than seven hundred seams to hold
them together, yet their weight is negligible.
Twenty years on, where hems have softened, stitches
still bind cleanly, show only the slightest fray.
There’s a snapshot of the young quilt when I fold
back a corner. Blues are gentler now, yellows safe.
On the hidden side, our stars are lines of dashes.
In the dark I feel their code break on my skin.