A Domestic Universe by Brooke Mitchell

A woman: the moon to a man’s sun, seen only

as far as the man can control her orbit with his gravity

and cast a shadow on her dark side.

 

Your trauma: the silence between stars.

A snowflake on the tip of a finger,

melted before anyone else knows it’s there.

 

A man’s sadness: reduced to fists curling like a comet’s tail.

Watch him scatter stars across your cheek.

Pretend there’s beauty in being loved so hard it bruises.

 

Feed him tears until the night sky pours from his mouth.

 

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