A Poem by Kylan

mane of flares and split atoms --
whips of nuclear fission punching inadvertently,
like newborn baby fists -- i wonder how long
it would take for blindness to follow from
looking into the sun, retinas curling and sickening
like a blood poisoning, black strains
of anti-light, and the sun quiet and 
bright as a nun-soul, as we stare, stare
into into the depths of void
and never look back.
planet -- wanderer . . .
knowing they are being watched and 
content with it, like beautiful women in public.
the gas giants purring, ferns of light
sighing from the center of the system,
and the nine eight planets turn to each other in their heavy exercises
glowing from within and talking in the shyest whispers, like 
women expecting. all set together, they
become progressively larger as they yawn 
out into space, pulling and vast, like birth pangs.
we set the telescope up on the lawn -- it is an especially clear night
and the moon is kept secret in the pockets of the night, like the token
of a patron saint -- waning, gibbous, ribbons of stars crashing against
atmosphere like a tide. dad says that if you're always going to be looking
up, then you might as well know what you're looking at. he says
that there are trillions of stars out there, despite the fact that we
can only see a few, and that is because the citylights silence
the stars, the same way all the crickets of a summer night
will suddenly 
and then return, one 
after we depart.
you have shown me pictures of supernovas and gaseous anomalies
of what the big bang might of looked like, what it probably looked like,
of all the matter in existence popping out of a single pinpoint of space,
like an overfull suitcase and spread, spread like a cancer
across the cosmos. you and i have traced the constellations
with our fingers, like blind men reading braille, the pocks and bumps
of the eternities, reading our way across orion's exploits, cassanova's
overturned chair, draco's serpent-tongue.
milky way spilled,
great mammary gland, puffed sleeves
of molecular clouds, and the red, squinting
pink-eye of jove's storm regarding us
levelly as we
take turns looking through the telescope, the trees
depositing their leaves around us -- ransom notes of summer. the stars
retreat from us as we prod, probe, like nightsnails retracting
their eyes. you show me the surface of the moon, the untucked
shirttails of silvery light, the canyons, calderas, valleys, the spot
where the apollo 11 landed in its delicate, aluminum bacteriophage.
(i am
i lie in bed, as starlight
drips waxily across my bedsheets, the telescope
in my corner, a peephole into the bedchamber of forever
and outside the meteors row across the river
of night, like tired souls across 
the river styx.
you kiss me 

© 2010 Kylan

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I am normally not a huge fan of playing around with stanzas and parlor tricks of construction, but your form and message, as it were, walk hand-in-hand as opposed to working at cross-purposes. The playing around with form has a reason behind it as opposed to being done for show. The entire piece is wonderfully paced, and there are all the well-turned phrases and inventive imagery you could ever want. Fine, fine piece of writing.

Posted 13 Years Ago

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1 Review
Shelved in 1 Library
Added on February 20, 2010
Last Updated on February 20, 2010



Medford, OR

I'm a senior in high school and I came out of the womb with a pen in one hand and a notebook in the other. I have a complex relationship with poetry and fiction -- fiction being my native format, but .. more..

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