(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.

(Poems of Pluto 2) Setting with the Sun

“Well fuck being a planet.”

Pluto is one asteroid

known for being in denial.

 

If you had ever sat by a creek

for three hours with the sun

in the middle of the night

you would agree.

 

If you had walked on sore feet

introducing the sun to edibles

forgetting you weren’t floating

you would know.

 

Bought the sun

pizza from its childhood

and given her that extra piece

you would ache.

 

Watched the sun get sleepy

beneath a Charmander blanket

while Rick and Morty played

you might understand.

 

You cannot.

You’ve never been

a planet turned asteroid.

Have you?

No.

Watch all the sunsets you want–

you will never know

what it is to be the clouds that surround

as the sun sets to rest.