star

Rori Acher is eighteen years old and dying. Any licensed medical professional would pronounce her perfectly healthy. But there are many ways to be dying that are not physical. 

Kiss where ink and flesh align,

carved to summon touch.

Skip the space between my lips,

spewing oaths of love.

You feed me want— then starve me dry.

A feast of glances,

I am from mythic hues of orange and blues, 

Where the setting sun greets the gentle waves.

From solemn mornings and soft bed sheets,

To boisterous cackles and tire swings,

I am from the jostling of jewelry—

I fear death
The way I fear the end of a song
Like I fear my favorite part being gone in an instant
A moment I can never get back
A note I experience only for a blip

My body is a universe
My freckles are the stars
The planet Venus is my lips
My teeth, they come from Mars

Mercury is in my brow
The furrow that you see
My thighs are Jupiter, you know
In the galaxy of me

Somewhere in the summer sun, 

Where dandelions dance and sing 

Along with the bluebird’s lonesome cry, 

Alone, you’ll find me, lying there 

Between the grass seed and maple leaves,