Sunberry Touch

Embers fall from your eyes

as you blink away the shy flames

of our centered gaze.

 

Base intentions rise

quelled only by inner fountains

set to sprinkle on Saturday–

noon time, splintered sun tans,

tentative rays.

 

Campfire veins fail to cool

even as summers come to close.

Ample airings of argent hues

clenched, bark worn toes.

 

Speak with lips softened

by separate encounters

each time,

a step closer

to our shared heat.

 

Dancing tongues only know

so many steps.

We grew feet for a reason.

 

Remember the first time

the sun claimed your flesh as its own?

I fear the same of our first touch.

 

Burn me, afternoon lover

with the sunberry juice

of your blue sky brush.

(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.

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.”

Workday (Poem)

If the last dewdrop alights

and the final night aligns

it will be no fault

of the rest your eyes

have lost, desired

for this past x amount

of ticking.

 

Stubborn lids

lift and lash

against the many breaths

borne of Wednesdays

of no sleeping in

no snow.

 

Snow hates Wednesdays.

 

Trifle, you seem to say

cranium sobbing

with mouth still.

Window will turn upwards

and out for you this

coming end. Regain

your sense of snacking

midday napping

leave off

knuckle cracking.

 

The Sun is your friend.

I promise.

I can’t wait for you

to touch it again

as you reach in your dreams

towards beams

their caress

so much softer

than weekdays made it seem.