Blame gravity: Jupiter has more pull on me
than you, here, inhaling my exhale, so no wonder
I’m readily distracted. The moon tugs at the surface
of water, coaxing waves to stay with her as she rolls
through her rounds. At birth a human is three-quarters
water, & by adulthood she’s wrung out to slightly
more than half. At this point I’m more tree than fetus.
You’re welcome, clouds. Out west a rock formation
pulses at the same rate as a human heart. It’s spared
the complications, the senior year breakups &
Easter morning angioplasties. As a child I collected
stones & gave them names. Kept them in
a dollhouse, cozied into Q-tip boxes
with Kleenex blankets. I realize now that Annie
was raw jasper, Sparkle just a hunk of concrete. But I
loved them more than any doll. God bless my family
for humoring this. One Christmas an uncle brought
petrified wood from the desert near his house.
It stunned me to learn how a thing existing with
me that second could be a fossil later on, but
in childhood timelines seem so finite & it hasn’t sunk in
how our present will be some future’s past. He owned
a telescope & had pins in his leg from a motorcycle crash,
took me outside to find constellations & hear how
space isn’t empty: it buzzes with energy crafting
matter to make the universe push out & away
from itself. I squint at my skin & picture atoms,
mid-spin, unaware of making me up.
Read more from Issue No. 26 or share on Facebook and Twitter.