Eight hundred years before I tried to kill myself, Galileo studies
stars—a near-invisible rendezvous.
No telescope in his hand, a chin lifted to the sky and two planets
traveling together. I can’t be sure if it’s time
that slows down or my attention. Either way, I never refuse an
invitation from my deepest dark. In my telling,
Galileo writes double-bright down in his notebook, forgets the
word phenomenon. Here, I recite my inertia—
my lonely invention caught between pilot light and carpet.
Jupiter and Saturn—a mismatch,
a gaseous incongruity. But in their tracing of the sun, a map to
keep eyes open. Galileo writes coded letters,
cursive attempts at being noticed and misunderstood.
And when I discovered how luxurious
my suffering could feel, I understood why we hold revelations
between our palms—
so we can better keep it for ourselves. Isn’t every word
written an attempt to outlive ourselves,
to pull closer distant objects? The sky’s dreamblue—
craters and spirals
and the secrets we place at the center of refusal. Never once
does Galileo take for granted
the imperfect dancing of satellites. His only instructions—
how to survive looking backward.
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