The astronomer's notion
by Elizabeth J. Gilbert

and what if pain was luminosity?
If light was any indication of that snap within a ribcage,
and the gentle gore of a parting conversation
then safely could we assume Sirius to be pleading in the language of broken throats 
with far marvelous Arcturus, to please, please stay
--they say that the universe is expanding, that the opposite of loneliness is density,
and by the time your light will reach the nearest galaxy
then all the dinosaurs, and pyramids, and your lover will have been dead five thousand years.
That's how big this place is,
while the most dazzling objects in the void are those stars just about to die.
Unfortunately the blazing sternums of planetoids go as yet unmeasured.
Still, the kiss-bruises on my lips, black and cloudy
as blood in pale water, fade slowly into the breathless motion of dry leaves
which the pitiless streetlamp presses against the cold weight of the windowpane.
Glass bent in a certain way makes things seem larger, but luminosity
is another thing entirely, for without light
I could see nothing of my apartment, the topography of furniture
the empty rumples of the bed;
your hat, which you forgot, and left monumental on a tabletop.
In its deep shadow I lie cracked
my damp palms shining,
with the moon upon my brow.

Elizabeth J. Gilbert is a student at The Evergreen State College.