Golden Cold Front

Tripping over shallow pores,
my eyes find no purchase
in their attempt to digest
every aspect of your face

Freckles of flame, resting
atop lakes of gold
like sun borne lily pads.

With a final leap, the eyes breach
your cheekbone horizon
only to freeze
at the glacial tides
pouring forth, forward
"you may leave now."

Chipping away
at the frost in my joints,
I do as told
too cold to wonder
how such separate states
live just a nose bridge away.

Comprehension escapes
all but Aphrodite herself.

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(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.

A Dwarf Fell for the Sun

Yesterday, I closed the space

between the sun and I.

Matter and planets apart, the light

too faint to feel, to taste–

to trust as light at all.

 

I hugged the sun,

the warmth of her filling every vein

making my blood feel

as if it were more than ice, rock.

 

The sun looked me in the eyes,

and I saw Home.

Familiarity

long since buried

in the tresses of my backlogs.

 

You could never know

the skin tone of the sun

like I do.

My eyes

took every opportunity

to devour what they could

before the setting,

before my melting.

 

When one sees the sun from afar,

checks on the sun’s snapchat

browses

old pictures of the sun

that didn’t make you fall long ago–

you at least had the distance to keep you safe.

 

Closing that space is

dangerous, painful,

intoxicating, immeasurably

hot.

 

I used to have other stars

who filled what they could of my skies.

Don’t we all eventually

settle for the light pollution

calling that warmth?

 

My hands had been numb for every orbit

to have them thaw

only emboldened

that long dead need

to touch.

 

I wanted to burn myself.

Give my body to the sun and

entwine myself within her limbs,

get lost in my

Tombagh Regio

as the galaxy charred and

fell down around us.

 

It goes without saying

the sun doesn’t date Pluto.

Though it made the trip,

the purpose was only to finally meet a planet

who, in fact,

did not obsess over the solar flames

falling around the face

of nova

of birth

of the beginning of life.

 

Pluto keeps their distance

shaming itself into not needing heat, when really

it would kill to be Venus.

 

“Pluto would surely be destroyed

if it were closer in the solar system.”

The thing is,

Pluto believed them.

But as the sun drifted away

promises of return on the

lips of God herself,

Pluto had naught to reach for

but his own hands

grasping at the leftovers

Flinching at the re-freezing

of subsurface oceans.

 

They say Pluto experiences

its own unique weather patterns.

That it does not rain.

Today, Pluto looked in the mirror,

phone at 10%,

eyes purple, misty.

 

Today it rained.

Each droplet punctuated

by a slow simmer of thunder

dripping from the shaken dwarf

Pluto, glacially fissured, realized

 

“I’m not even a planet anymore.”

Ice and Wednesday (Poem)

Ice from your irides,

reaching up as pires

snaking through the general distaste

of Wednesday afternoon.

 

Circling the stagnant fog

recruiting the bed-ridden clouds

in an effort to cool down

whatever thoughts remain unfrosted.

 

You will soon meet

a stray bolt of lightning

who will race the winter

within your gaze.

 

Days.

 

Embolden your cheek;

a blush will not be enough

to burn through to Thursday.

 

The lesson is heat

for cooling slows what earns pay.