Ode for Dark Matter
By Jayme Ringleb
Watching starry darknesses
in darkness
shift, I feel attended
though I am alone:
I think I’ll be
ambushed by possums
I often see
nosing the compost
and retreat to bed
with a faintheartedness
jump-started by nothing.
Thirty years and still
I’ll believe
I am shepherded
by the invisible—
which is,
after all, all
around: blank motes
like moons
lashing me to action.
Tonight, I’ll eat
a plateful of shortbread
and dream—stars, maybe—
wrapped
in the pilled blanket,
the body sleeping
like a tree, blind
like a tree.
It’s almost a heaven,
neglecting you.
This poem previously appeared in Sixth Finch.