another cosmic joke- pretending to not be
wicked and servant to Andromeda, dressed in gloom
and reaching for a concrete galaxy
just a few worlds away. We were
tectonic-always shifting to become another
rumble and name the sound of our core
imploding on itself. I only cling to silent
voices and maybe you'll find me if you crawl
to the center of the earth, cradled in fossils
and waist-length hair. You'll name the dark
matter so I won't waste time talking about
how divine it was to watch a goddess falter
into a constellation, all golden and sprawling.
She'll smoked your last cigarette
and crush every star you were once
proud of, each broken bulb of light fractured
towards us, where we sleep in the backyard
and wait for the sun to finally burn out.
Hannah Cajandig-Taylor is an MFA Candidate at Northern Michigan University, where she is a Graduate Teaching Assistant and Associate Poetry Editor for Passages North. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Ore Ink Review, Snapdragon, Tulane Review, Qua Magazine, Drunk Monkeys, and Rising Phoenix Press, among others. Before attending graduate school, she interned for The Missouri Review and Persea Books.
You can find her on Twitter @hannahcajandigt.
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