Constellation of Kate In numbers they’re called a murder of crows, a conspiracy of ravens, a wake of buzzards. For the poets in the room, I offer up my own formations: A mercy of moonlight. A siren of muses. A haunting of addictions. I don’t know what to call a collective moral bankruptcy— other than an evangelical. I don’t know when we went from if it feels good, do it to if it hurts, you’re doing it right but I digress. Somewhere along the Scorpio meridian, somewhere in the misty nebula of bones, I became the constellation of Kate— a Milky Way of poems, an Orion of grief. The Archer nicknamed me Uncertian and left a supernova of unlived life in the deep space of my chest. Its light refuses to go out even though it’s been dead for eons. To reach it, I’ve both flown and dug my way through space junk —defunct rocket bodies and failed moon landings only to arrive here. An Icarus of joy. A loneliness of selves. A die-alone of star crossed lovers. On my clearest nights I am a retrograde wild child— a solar disturbance that aurora’s through the heavens of everything I’ve ever lost or let go of. An astronomer of word formations. Determined to discover from the sky, all the bright shiny things that’ve sunk to the ocean floor.
Note: I posted this on Instagram last night and was swiftly reminded why I don’t post there much anymore. I like it here so much better. My nervous system is much more at ease here with y’all. And these days especially, I’m really appreciative of that. Thank you. Please, if my work resonates, share it and invite your people to subscribe. This poem was inspired by a WWKC writing prompt. I love that space and the crazy talented people in it more than I can say. More info on WWKC and Salt Tooth Writers here. xo
I already told you, but this is as beautiful as the moon last night, and the starriest sky imaginable. I feel so lucky to call you friend. Love you x
"An Icarus of joy.
A loneliness of selves."
Yes, one right next to the other. This resonates.