stella maris

I feel small
like a love sheltered beneath African
weave-baskets
that can't be coloured in.
I just want to be your friend, hold you hand
as we expand like embryos.

we know little enough
to be able to think about breathing
in time with imploding stars.
I paint the whole context of science and space
in your pupil, because you are a bedtime story
and I am gravity,
looking into two different mirrors.
body and mind do not know each other,

and we'll never unearth the words for this
like the worms that we imagine as wrist joints
and femurs.
I feel small, and telling you so
gives me goosebumps
as I think about your feet kicking up stardust
like children playing soccer.

This balloon in my chest is not romantic
or red or measurable by your SAT score.
I just to want to show you
how black your eyes look
when they hold the body of heaven,
like the way you used to bear me home
after clamming for our buried heritage.