Heavenly Bodies
We are inevitable, like gravity.
Of course, apples fall down
and not up, or sideways, but here
we are and we are not falling
but pulling toward each other,
galaxies between who we are,
what we want, and what we have.
There are gods hidden in the angles
of his hips, constellations of fur
between pink buds blooming
on his chest, beneath those
the drum of creation. I am molten
in the middle, a smaller planet
drawn to his tidepull as he rises
over me supernova, but I know
by the time the light of a star
reaches us, it is millions of years
dead, nothing to hold, gone.
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Colleen S. Harris earned her MFA in Writing from Spalding University. A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her poetry collections include The Light Becomes Us (Main Street Rag, forthcoming), Babylon Songs (First Bite Press, forthcoming), These Terrible Sacraments (Bellowing Ark, 2010; Doubleback, 2019), The Kentucky Vein (Punkin House, 2011), God in My Throat: The Lilith Poems (Bellowing Ark, 2009), and chapbooks That Reckless Sound, and Some Assembly Required (Pork Belly Press, 2014). You can find her on Instagram, Twitter, and Bluesky as @warmaiden
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 