Venus and Jupiter
It is March and unseasonably warm
like the moisture exhaled from your
mouth in the seconds after you finish
our convergence, on top of me,
gasping unvoiced vowels against
my ear like you once did
when you would whisper the Norse Song of Making
against my back as though I was
We were young then
and had never touched
until that night
pulsing as stars flicker,
a gravity of two.
I see the sky now as the carte blanche
though this story was written
in latitude lines
long before we knew
how it would end
or how we would orbit so
far from the vespers
of our shared religion.
I have forgotten how you taught
me to read the night sky
as a Christian reads the Psalms,
how you taught me what it was like
to love and loathe and absolve myself.
I have forgotten that I am
only an unnamed planet
waiting for these fleeting moments
mid-March when I can converge
against your brightness
and remember nothing,
so much white.
by Athena Pangikas-Miller
Editor’s Note: Astronomy, mythology, and sensuality converge in this poem to show a relationship rich in both history and the fleeting nature of time. The balance between imagery, pacing, and personal narrative is brilliant.
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