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.