DANI COUTURE
The Rusty Toque | Issue 12 | Poetry | June 30, 2017
Report on the Bright Spots on CeresWe’re speculating on our speculations. Bright spots. Plumes of ice? We’ll know once we draw in closer. Our cyclops Dawn. There’s rumour that within months, Ceres’s status will change. A Houston girl who turns sixteen. The debut of ninety-nine cents become a single dollar. Come official word, a thousand children will be primed to string floss and foam additions to the world’s solar system mobiles. They’ll learn it’s okay to admit others were wrong. And will be wrong again. We’re still smarting over Pluto. Our internal mnemonics refuse alteration. How many times do I have to tell you you never stop loving someone. In Switzerland, versions of us are smashing microscopic holes into the known universe with the idea that they, like us, will radiate and die in short time. I sent them a letter to say the platypus has poisonous spurs and the huntsman spider is mostly harmless. I've done my part. Come Friday, look to see if the lights go out or burn brighter. For now, textbook pages tremble as each letter dilates to accommodate what we hope for against what we need to hope for. The mechanical failure of our best pitch set forth on a slow drift. We’ve breached the hearth of the original thought. What was it I needed to do? I can’t recall what it was I once thought. Fly-byStand at the sharp end of a shark’s tooth of beach, inch back as tidal waters dull the point. You split the tall grass and retreat. Downriver, a voice. I think this is too far, to unseen companions. Ticks, small as the graphite tip long buried in your palm, constellate your legs. Two days until Pluto. The small have an invested interest in the small. You are on vacation and reading about Lyme disease. New reports on Pluto. Daily, teenagers shore up. Hexagons and a whale’s tail. They strip and dress driftwood with triangles of wet Lyrca. Unlit Jack-O-lantern eyes. Yesterday, a local asked, Do you realize you use pronouns when you talk about spacecraft? Inquire after ticks. The ounce of cremains aboard the probe. Nine years, three billion miles, the afterlife of Tombaugh’s ashed eye. A text to an outdated question blinks awake. All good. Just revelry. Open your computer, type Define revelry. An issue with constant values and constant invalidation of facts. Define fact. The dwarf’s dwindling atmosphere, five natural satellites. Etymology tick. From a window, watch a girl swim to the closest island. Don’t worry, a boy yells. Not enough salt for sharks. To the tick to the bird to the girl, I whisper, Dogfish. And something about love. |
DANI COUTURE is the author of three books of poetry and the novel Algoma (Invisible Publishing). Sweet (Pedlar Press) was nominated for the Trillium Book Award for Poetry and won the ReLit Award for poetry. Her most recent book is YAW (Mansfield Press).
