Hum of a Telescope

I think I know why Frigga spins golden thread
and never tells anybody why

It’s why rocks don’t levitate over Oklahoma fields
if the cows are sleeping

It’s why the trees don’t sing
in the moments before tornadoes

It’s why after a mile or two of walking together
we only hear one set of footsteps

It’s why from the ground
we only see one side of the moon

It’s why the stars that make up constellations
don’t even have to be from the same galaxy,
but by the time the light reaches Earth,
the past just looks like pictures

It’s why we lose signal from our satellites
when we get too close to Saturn
and the magnetic field from that eerie giant
overpowers human wit

Or why you tell me
if we’re both quiet
then things will get awfully boring

So I fill your bedroom
with awkward conversation
and probes launched to breach your silence

So maybe my satellite can work through
your dense atmosphere of hydrogen and helium
hot enough to incinerate my flesh and bones

Now every chance I get
I sink deep into your core
a ricochet of ions
so subdued by the absolute
frenzy of your energy and heat
that at this depth
my atoms explode

Until I’m dressed in nothing but the lightning
that you sewed to my hips

And in that electric hum
I shake off all remnants
of who I was as human

And it’s then

That you spin me like a ring of Saturn
thin around a giant, with no signals left to send

It’s why only an observer

With a telescope and night skies

Can tell why you spin golden thread.


 

 

About the Author Benjamin Eggleton: I'm a 24 year old writer, living in Fayetteville, Arkansas where I attend the U of A. I have two previous publications and after I graduate in May, I plan to attain a Masters in Fine Arts, endeavoring to pursue a writing career.