When my ear first orbited your throat to listen for a roaming balloon of nestled flesh I heard trailer home hollowness in copper vein pipes. You draped a scarf over your superglued neck, telling me it was normal to fistfight death at 35. On Dadβs desk, your weight breathed feebly inside a sandwich bag. At night its nuclear green cast Orions across our ceiling. I never knew what real stars looked like, while you had completely forgotten.
Years later, in the dark of our 17-acre home, you handed me your thyroid in its bag swimming in opalescent fluid and you looked at Polaris for the first time, as that same glow painted the Big Dipper on neighboring snowbanks. I dropped the bag on the dry rot porch. We heard your cancer flatten to a deflated bicycle tire, sweating from death, watched through squinted eyes as its glow turned from hazardous neon to cinder. It dried in the moonlight, a forgotten, frostbitten raisin, and our eyes readjusted to the perpetuating darkness.
I saw it then like a long constellation line connecting star to forehead. It had been a lie before, but the North Star is truly the brightest in the sky. We looked through its surface underneath the starβs skin to its heart space, and we realized that Polaris can only be seen when thin plastic holds inside damaged shadows of family dinners bathed in deionized salt, where I ponderously stared at the **** in your esophagus, drawn with knife like ruby crayon into office paper.
Published in the Spring edition of the Temenos literary journal, 2016.