I wish I could tell you, the rings around Saturn are disappearing, and there is a mysterious light
on Mars right now. Your love for astronomy is biased by probes, satellites, space junk. You see
the moon as craters, rocks, a dry orb. I see cheese. I see a man who follows me home watching
me through the car window as my dad blasts a corny rock song, something like “Muskrat Love”.
The light falling upon my lap tickles my thigh bone. I’m glad you found some nice binoculars.
Maybe the stars will fall out of the sky soon. Maybe we will turn into fiery crystal balls and drink
gravity into our lungs. This would be nice. There would be nothing left. No one to remember
songs or loud cackles of laughter. Out of Jupiter a flower would descend creating a certain joy no
human being has ever experienced. Through this joy the moon will have children, but we will be
nothing, not static or will. I wish I could tell you the Milky Way is dripping milk and the man
who landed on the moon is signaling for you to open your eyes.
Kristen Mitchell is a queer / disabled / supermodel poet living in Michigan. On her date with Dee Dee Ramone, he bought her some Joe Jackson cassette tapes. Her work has been published by Knight's Library Press, Abandoned Library Press, and Wanting to Die Poetry Club.