Ten thousand light years from Orion’s Arm,
my eye is naked and
distinguished. Your small satellite orbits
my dark regions with aim.
I am uninhabitable with my gas,
and dust, and hot stars
spiraling in mass distribution.
Call me Sagittarius A….
and I will call you instable,
with your fictional planets
swaying with indefinite motion,
your thick Dwarf Elliptical
cancels out my Galaxy
over and
over again.
Be still,
or churn,
like butterfly milk,
like curdled cream.
I dreamed that we cannot dream past September.
Maybe God will explode then,
and all the stars
and all the planets
and all the moons
and all the science
and all the religion
will mix together in a giant tornado
and the desert will no longer be
and then,
I will no longer be.
It took only his few words in sight,
tied together on specks of dust,
sent to me on the back of July’s
thick breeze.
I stood as openly as my chest would allow,
reading his words from the hot pavement,
soaking in a fresh idea, feeling
his tone
settle deep in my ribs.
It is not an uncomfortable place for him,
for me,
unlike the others. He is a choice.
I gather his aromatic movement
like a lilac wedding bouquet and plant
his image between my special vessels
and skilled capillaries.
At first, years ago, when I kept my eyes
and cheeks naked, it
was not a choice. His parasitic words glued
themselves to my eager young ears, prepared to host.
Now though, his silvery voice is
passion fruit,
a red sweet juice that saturates me,
and it took only his few words sprawled
in the hot July pavement,
“I think of you every day.”
maggiemaeijustsaythis 