(Poems of Pluto 5) Sol Sighs

Fuck me up, Sun.

Tear away the atmospheres between us

let them fall and crisp into nothing

around our mismatched feet.

 

Destroy me.

Show this simple asteroid how

the single most inspirational star in the sky

moves when the moon is on duty.

 

I will forgo any semblance of release

as long as, just once,

I hear that true sigh of spring’s awakening,

feel that hot breath

summer wishes it could possess.

 

Bite at me–

grip with all your strength at my

$20 sheets as I

teach you what the other planets mean when they say,

“rainfall”.

 

Lay your hips upon mine

teach me the definition of those

convective motions.

 

Let us test how far

the largest source of energy in the solar system

can take us in one night.

 

I know, I know.

The protection I’ve brought isn’t exactly

designed to handle temperatures

anywhere close to 6,000 Kelvin.

Nor is the rest of me.

 

I can only hope

my ears

are the last part of me

to melt.

 

 

(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 3) I Played Mario with the Sun

I took a picture of the sun

while she wasn’t looking.

I’m sorry.

 

I knew asking would only

brighten the flames

embolden

the teeth.

 

I wanted something to call my own.

Anyone can want the sun;

No one else

gets to play Mario with her.

 

So I captured her,

in this single moment where

my couch was her home

my voice

her touchstone.

 

I wonder how far

Pluto’s voice

carries

in the void between

my couch

and the center of

her chest?

(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.

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.”

A Name in Blue

Give me a record breaking smile.

Teach me the ways of

dancing in the rain without

finding displeasure

in

the drench.

 

I’d like to fall for myself.

That being in my chest is certainly saying something.

If anyone could find a translator,

I’ll owe you a single, silver star.

 

Cradle me in the clouds

and call out my name.

It doesn’t need to be heard,

just said.

I’ve always loved my name, but,

I think it needs more

than the blue of my eyes.

 

Separate blues

communicate through

unvarnished hues–

a communal want

for their true ocean.

 

The concrete commotion

never impressed me,

no matter the

gems unearthed,

the suits, embroidered.

 

I’ve only ever had

my single, silver star.

Please.

                           take it.

I promise its warmth

is worth just enough

to send “Billy” to the sky.

Let him feel all of the blues

where blues were born to feel.

 

Then, maybe,

just once

he’ll feel the sun.

Compass, Broken.

How are you?

Sweet being of sky and sound,

how do you fare in your time of loss?

I know this will not be the end for you,

because it simply is not written that way.

 

I cannot proclaim to know much beyond that, but

I can tell you of the winds you will feel,

how they will reteach you the ways of sunlit exhalations,

the path of self, following it to the horizon, bending

warping, evermore.

 

You knew harsh change would come and yet

we fail to accept it will ever truly come.

Your heart was not ready

and yet it has to be.

 

As an entire half of you falls away

burning the edges of you with its

careless and careful claws

it will pave the way for new soil

new leaves

triumphs and higher branches still.

 

Even the most lifeless of stones

can be seen and felt

far beneath the rivers of time.

You too will sink,

erode

and flow out into the lake

you’ve always wanted to visit

though you never knew it there.

 

Fear is allowed.

Encouraged.

You will drown and burn and drown again,

but hey–

who ever said the sun

has never known night?