Retrograde | poem

Chewing blue lips,
I retrace steps through stars,
flirting with moons.
I choose
to peruse stardust,
not blood.

Maybe this mess
is crucial, a reverse foxtrot
of love, where I stumble
over toes, numbing spines
to dip deep
and long.

Maybe this mess
is sacred, a puddle
of black matter flattening
my frills, clipping me
to the edge of God’s

belly ring.


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