Only I knew what sort of weird screw it took to tap
that star into your sky. I am glad to be finally fallen.
I am glad to have shot myself down. Anyone could
know the brisk lick of your orbit. It is I who knew your firm
ament. Only I can open my own orb and milk your way out
with this constellation prize: thank you for pin-pricking me
so bright from your dark, thank you for the bridal weeds; bridal;
making me the new moon of the bedroom every evening
showing a sliver of silver to a universe screaming, take
it off, take it all off. True, too. More to see but nothing
doing with money. No, everything with proper poles. A com
pass becomes disoriented when magnets move, such as happened
my soul. But moons when shimmied orient all.
Oddly now, I’m pulling oceans, nothing pulling me.
Candice Wuehle is a Master’s Candidate at the University of Minnesota currently pursing a degree in literature. She hails from a variety of Middle Western towns, but mostly Iowa City, Iowa, where she has studied at the Writer’s Workshop (summer sessions). Her work has appeared in The Honeyland Review and EARTHWORDS and is forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins.
