In this myth, I’m queen of a capsized throne.
Robes thrown over my head are a curtain
of heavenly bodies — a personal planetarium
of ruin. My compass points north, when
the only direction I want to travel is home.
A place beneath the sleeves of a star
wheel, where plains become a borderland
of splintered skeletons. I carry these skulls
for centuries in a funeral procession over prairies.
I’ve lost my hourglass. Replaced it
with a secondhand sundial. But the moon rises
across my face. Too late. Tremors
radiate through my skull. Cold fronts crawl
over the balcony of my collar bone
as cosmic winds. & the web stemming
from my nose becomes a star-studded veil.
Another body shrouded in mirrored thread,
I’m fastened to a darkening desert sky.
What to name clusters of indigo beads blooming in my garden? Bluebonnet cousins? Starry stems? Steps away from my front door, an ocean breaks open. The door a caravel that carries me windward. & am I not homesick, yet? Rising with each current, I receive gifts of salt grapes, whale songs, & canyon winds. Less fear where water becomes prairie grass. I hold these hyacinths (now named) to my chest. Let my body be carried to their ceilinged sky.
When I exhaust all other forms of exploration,
this landscape will deny me at the border;
& I will turn my gaze toward a darkening
sky filled with stars I no longer recognize.
This is a realigning of the body, I imagine.
The horizon meeting an ocean & shattering
into shards of light that pierce this meat-
coated skeleton hurtling through space.
It’s all very dramatic against such a sound-
proof backdrop. I put on my skin inside-
out with the seams still showing. Creation—
bloodless veins embroidered over bone.
I’ll dance this coat into a familiar tapestry
but will be found out. Meteors cannot
erase the scars or satellites wandering
along boundaries of this planetary body.