Astronomy’s Music Lesson
There’s a place on your back where once there was a
second wing, where my hand slides
up the curve of your spine,
rests on a shoulder blade,
and I kiss it.
It smells like Vick’s and Vera Wang.
The other night I left a note on your Jeep:
Where are you, love?
Rain laughed at it.
And now your eyes say that when you fell,
hard and fucked-up into
nightclubs and straight jackets, you just
wiped your mouth.
Clouds burned you a scar so fierce
you couldn’t stop touching yourself.
It’s why you keep me in minor keys, where
I can only warm the half of you
that won’t break.
The other half is ice on a red vase in moonlight.
How did you jar such a faraway tune?
Am I your freak
addiction? Capo for your
Goddamn it. You burn
with someone else’s name
on your neck,
music from around the block.
Evenings when the sun
takes your hair
in spangled blaze,
I hear singing
at the deep end of your room.
A song about high places.
When I touch your fear of heights
I feel that phantom
wing, torn, hacked off your back.
My love, the hole it left is just the sky at night.