i sink into constellations’ cores,
their hydrogen tinged blue with memories,
their helium tinged red with remorse.
they have lived long lives burning without rest
and have forgotten the taste of water,
how it quenches thirsts they didn’t know they had
andromeda screaming like the ocean waves
as the black takes her shining body,
marring orbs of light with tendrils of abyss.
orion— ever the hero— arrives,
missing each arrow, and when he touches andromeda,
i swallow his flickering, beaming, delicious light.
cygnus is nicked by a wayward arrow and offers up
his neck in solid acquiescence,
his gaseous feathers tickling my throat
darkness: an absence of light
me: an abscess spanning across violet sky
bulging body, skin unfolding
layer by layer like an onion
that seeps across the sky like sap,
celestial bodies clink in my belly
like coins i can never spend
only spread spread spread
through soft glances from star to star,
the touches their bodies craved when young.
they have lived so long only ever giving light,
they pass the reaper’s spiraling shadows just as easily,
spitting regret and relief in equal measure as they
finally drown in a star-eater’s soul.
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Ashley Bao is a junior at Amherst College. Her poetry and short fiction have appeared in Reckoning, Strange Horizons, Cast of Wonders, and elsewhere. She may sometimes be found looking at cute cats on Twitter @ashleybaozi. |