BLuets
I see us as a spread of stars or blooms —
a constellation in the southern sky only seen
in warmer months. Remember, there were
warmer times & we both know it’s it’s true,
that you grow cold as you grow old. Winter
became an echo in my marrow, a pause
that pulled so many frost-stung branches
over my bones. I have tried resisting, I have tried
to set alarms & count pills. I have tried to argue
that I am younger than my mother was
when she was this old — I am less, I am hungrier.
There is no ground waiting for my alarms to go
unanswered. I cannot afford a plot on this earth.
& it seems so tragic to lose it all: the color of your eyes,
the fleeting feeling that I was a living thing, that I was
someone that you could miss. I was so tired of the cold
that I almost believed that I was more than just lines
& stars & my mother’s idea of a dutiful daughter. I know
now that I was a fool. I know that when I die I’ll just stop
answering, I’ll lose count. May as well hoist the map lines,
may as well light the anchor stars. May as well translate
the spaces between. May as well learn myself in the language
of the sky. May I weather the wane of gravity’s cage & learn
each star, each story, each shoot, each atom as it blooms.
Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts
