Your voice rises
above the street sounds.
The full moon sits
on your right shoulder,
Octavia Butler on your left
trying to divine the future.
We reach across a space
denser than the continent
between us,
my grand plan broken
like a piñata raining
crayfish.
This was not what I envisioned—
tears rolling down your cheeks,
a hollow in your chest.
I’ve become quicksand,
my gravity more rabid
than a galaxy’s pull.
You speak of black holes,
a void
where light and love can’t live
and I wonder
what your spaceship is made of,
wonder
if you are hovering
in the famished air
or
if your ship has already steered away.
Dear Captain, this co-pilot has lost
the guiding stars,
is floating
between constellations,
keys jingling in a patch-work pocket
unable to open
the gates
to agape.