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Archive for April, 2011

Mama Milky Way

Mama Milky Way

by ~Elmara/Asmara Malik

There’s a party in another galaxy,
the spinning disco-ball of Orion
is admittedly gaudy. Andromeda:
show-boat, drama-queen,

lonely little girl crying into her
whisky– a sparkling tear, light refract-
ing light– garish starburst at the tip of her
sea-green nose. Baby, your mascara’s

leaving tracks on my collar, Sirius
snarls, pushing her back, wiping
down the bar. Go home, babe, go
home. Perseus is still waiting up

for you, clawing his weary cello
to lessen the agony of your
leaving
. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,
misterbartendersir, (We don’t

serve your kind here, he growls) but
the flashy fireworks of supernovas
died out and this silence of black-holes
got too radio-dense for my liking and

well, they said you’re the man to see
for the impossible. Can I make a call,
Sirius, sir, please? I just came in from
a meteor shower and- (Stop your silly

blathering, human, a black rotary
piano crash-stomping on the bar) Do they
re-route calls from this fuzzy, nameless
galactic arm? The Oort Cloud does

distort voices so. Hello? Can you hear
me, Mama Milky Way? I’m losing
my frequencies to make contact with
you. My morse code is a rusty

childhood memory. Lost,
lost– the poetry of perpetual
white noise is drowning out
the signal of my piano’s

morose notes. Mama, can you
hear me? This is not you, here, with cyan
finger-tips, brittle fingernails, mouthlessly
speaking of decades spent washing dishes,

washing clothes, washing floors, washing
away my tears. Mama, this is not you, lying
awake, staring at the ceiling, dry-eyed
grief blinding your eyes. What do I

come home to? I had asked, celestial
glimmer of tears on your cheeks, lit
by these streetlights, the last time
I was home. Stop coming to my

house, you’d said.

My memory is a wormhole– I am
always four years old, I am always
handing you the first of these summer
white daisies, learning of eternity by

tracing the cracks in your heels, listening
to you speak to Dad of why infinity must
always run out: “Because in the end” you
say, Mama, pulling me to the heaven

of your arms, pointing out the stars
of the Milky Way, raising my baby-hands
to that inky terminus of prayer,
“love is all there is.”

From: http://elmara.deviantart.fcom/art/Mama-Milky-Way-183622353

                                                                                            

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