Overhead in the vast sprinkle of galaxy-rocks
the feathers and neck outweigh
our lofty attempt to discuss the stars.
We stare into what looks like water
but instead betrays sky stacked on sky, stacked
above (higher above) the skyscrapers,
and gaze at a swan stretching
the reach of everything except our hearts
that flutter due to the view. Mine also,
due to your hand resting on my knee
as you trace in the air with your other hand
the wingspan of a star-born waterfowl
trillions of miles away and ask if I can see it.
But I can’t. I can’t see the shapes as you can,
the whole abyss up there is feathers.
I only see your eyes dilated in the deep.
Also, trillion is a ridiculous word.
A light-year is 5.88 trillion miles from earth.
It takes 8 minutes and 20 seconds for the light
from Sun to reach Earth. Also, the measure
of lives daily set into motion
is the recording of details. Your heart
is less than 24 inches from mine.
Inside the house, one of the children
is taking a shower. I hear water spray.
I hear their music playing. I tap on your knee
and move closer to your shape
only to lose you in a God-sky reverie.
Somehow your vertebrae release wings.
As the stars and signs shift inside,
we gather feathers for our nest.
We are bound by the rituals of house,
of bed, of planting and weeding,
of time, limited and shrunk under the stars.
–
Jennifer Pons is an English teacher in Portland, Oregon. Her poems appear in Ninth Letter (web edition), Mom Egg Review, Rock & Sling, Opt West, Psaltery & Lyre, CutBank Online, EKSTASIS, Whale Road Review, and other publications. She was a finalist for the Patricia Goedicke Prize in Poetry and the Pamet River Prize, and she was nominated for Best Spiritual Literature 2022.