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Brooke Lightfoot

At Times I Realize the Impact I’ve Made

 

 

like every third year I veer

off track, a comet tangled

in my hair, a snarl in seamed hose.

 

Disruptions, likely

and unlikeable, are assholes for whom

Murphy designed a law to laugh

 

in my face. This is your cue, at the end

of the poem, to laugh in my face.

I have recurrent dreams of crying

 

silently and no one cares.

I have no comment on the ways

I inflict the same pain in waking life,

 

my orbital suck, too strong

for anyone’s good, at times,

I expand Jupiter-like and gaseous,

 

blueing up the place,

yet focus on how she Pluto’s me.

Dwarfed and ostracized, I play the solar system’s

 

tiniest violin, dreaming of volcanoes

erupting Venus’ surface, of diving into the cones

wearing magma robes, reducing to ash

 

and so much unfortunate star dust,

spilling from her urn, spreading

the reaches of black galactic space.

 

I’ll pull back together, formed

by forces who become my moons,

moths flitting about my face

 

making me Light. Visible to Venus.

I give her a wink she’ll notice

in a few thousand light years,

 

building mass from those I use.

 

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