trans-neptunian

mane of flares and split atoms --

whips of nuclear fission punching inadvertently,

like newborn baby fists -- i wonder how long

it would take for blindness to follow from

looking into the sun, retinas curling and sickening

like a blood poisoning, black strains

of anti-light, and the sun quiet and 

bright as a nun-soul, as we stare, stare

into into the depths of void

and never look back.

planet -- wanderer . . .

knowing they are being watched and 

content with it, like beautiful women in public.

the gas giants purring, ferns of light

sighing from the center of the system,

and the nine eight planets turn to each other in their heavy exercises

glowing from within and talking in the shyest whispers, like 

women expecting. all set together, they

become progressively larger as they yawn 

out into space, pulling and vast, like birth pangs.

we set the telescope up on the lawn -- it is an especially clear night

and the moon is kept secret in the pockets of the night, like the token

of a patron saint -- waning, gibbous, ribbons of stars crashing against

atmosphere like a tide. dad says that if you're always going to be looking

up, then you might as well know what you're looking at. he says

that there are trillions of stars out there, despite the fact that we

can only see a few, and that is because the citylights silence

the stars, the same way all the crickets of a summer night

will suddenly 

hush

and then return, one 

by 

one,

after we depart.

you have shown me pictures of supernovas and gaseous anomalies

of what the big bang might of looked like, what it probably looked like,

of all the matter in existence popping out of a single pinpoint of space,

like an overfull suitcase and spread, spread like a cancer

across the cosmos. you and i have traced the constellations

with our fingers, like blind men reading braille, the pocks and bumps

of the eternities, reading our way across orion's exploits, cassanova's

overturned chair, draco's serpent-tongue.

milky way spilled,

great mammary gland, puffed sleeves

of molecular clouds, and the red, squinting

pink-eye of jove's storm regarding us

levelly as we

take turns looking through the telescope, the trees

depositing their leaves around us -- ransom notes of summer. the stars

retreat from us as we prod, probe, like nightsnails retracting

their eyes. you show me the surface of the moon, the untucked

shirttails of silvery light, the canyons, calderas, valleys, the spot

where the apollo 11 landed in its delicate, aluminum bacteriophage.

(i am

swallowed

whole.)

i lie in bed, as starlight

drips waxily across my bedsheets, the telescope

in my corner, a peephole into the bedchamber of forever

and outside the meteors row across the river

of night, like tired souls across 

the river styx.

you kiss me 

goodnight.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

I am normally not a huge fan of playing around with stanzas and parlor tricks of construction, but your form and message, as it were, walk hand-in-hand as opposed to working at cross-purposes. The playing around with form has a reason behind it as opposed to being done for show. The entire piece is wonderfully paced, and there are all the well-turned phrases and inventive imagery you could ever want. Fine, fine piece of writing.