(Pluto Poems 4) Corona

I don’t want to orbit the sun anymore.

 

Her warmth is poison to me

you see its easier to simply

float alone, frozen than

pick away at the nitrogen ice

 

in hopes that one day

you’ll find the central core of life

that hasn’t been there all along.

 

I am rigid.

Her mere closeness

breaks me.

If I were to crash land into

her Saturday and

stay a few nights with

arms to caress and

cheeks to kiss, then

perhaps learning to swim

in my own chest

wouldn’t be so maddening

 

but there is no Saturday on Pluto.

There are no ponds, no lakes.

Streams or creeks, whispering sweet

lullabies to the moons.

 

I am forged of broken, stiff

glacial indifference.

 

Please, you wretched hydrogen star…

 

My fingers are not even flowers

yet they wish to bloom

along the fields of your

corona.

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