Clotted stars jam space up, sweet and sticky as it is. The blackness of the universe is a front for the rainbows running rampant beneath our neat reality. I threw out Jupiter because he didn’t “spark joy.” My husband charging a car battery, sparks sparkling around his hands like sycophants. His hands build my name, a ship that gnaws at the unending sea, our home of seashells and topaz. At the end of time he pushes my wheelchair through fields of angry poppies, the stars above us bickering about who gets to immolate the screaming earth.
Miniature Moon 