Corpus, Cosmos

Breathing in early morning light, something about the Sun makes you believe in reality today. You awaken to a greater woman, a casual celestial, in your bed. She lays like she belongs there, and you become the tourist, begging the question mark curve of her divine back. 

She wears the twenty seven moons of Uranus on her neck like pearls, nothing else. Is she Gaia or Galatea or God? You lean in close. She blinks up at you with Venus as a glass eye, sighs the wistful smoke of a Neptune nebula. You inhale her, taste Mars on her tongue like hard candy. Pluto rolls in her gut like roulette dice, Earth trembles with the globes of her cheeks. 

Little deaths, bed creaks, primordial truth under your sheets.

Forever seeking and seeking forever, you encrust Jupiter into a promise ring. Again and again you etch the prayer word please into her skin with Mercury as your tattoo needlepoint. Yet she cracks along the ink, this colossal everything woman, because she will never be yours. 

Slow as Saturn you realise your absolute body has misunderstood her dissolute liminality. You witness, you worship, mortal, your transience is a miracle of her eternity. She smiles kindly, impersonal as death. You kiss her as she crumbles into Moon dust. You sweat through the afternoon heat and forget her by dusk. 

26/05/21