Saturn 1/3

Saturn

Tween

Not in the brightest ring, or the fainter B Ring, or even the crepe inner one you need a decent telescope to see, I belonged to Cassini’s Division, in the gap where unbought tickets wait to be redeemed. And wait.

I started backstage and never stole a kiss. I didn’t have the clothes, the look, the space-walk. They could tell I was interstellar and not for touch.

You might detect me, up close. Or not. Just as quickly moving on to your next conquest.

Her Garden

The truth was, I did it for her. I wanted to apologize for the death of my father with an anxious sort of love, a splash of fresh color for her altar. Hoping for dry lips on me like the tap of a consecrating sword.

It was my version of an English country garden, gleaned from brochures in the days when airbrushing took ages, and if you made a mistake you had to start over, not simply resurrect the lost file.

It was all grass when we moved in, right back to the fence line. Safe green. Though weeds had infiltrated, and not just a dot-gain of clover. There were aliens on the wind who had long since colonized the first settlers of the ground.

Still, it was better than what I recalled from Kempton Avenue, my first docking point, with roots that had surrendered to hardened dirt, where only a decent snowfall could make us as pristine as a suburb.

I would transform it. Like a Zionist, I would make the desert bloom. The soil was heavy with clay, but I wore my blisters like medals, creating beds from boundaries, planting roses, peonies, tiger lilies, and marigolds to ward off the insects.

It took months, for the bouquets to bloom. And when Frieda said nothing, fretted about ants on the stalks, water stains on the countertop, I did not give up. Rather, I kept at it for me.

I would smear myself with cryogens and become Titan, a moon of Saturn. A god betrayed, but poetic in my moments of nature. Opaque with secrets, but bristling with scripts.

When I went back to the house on Cummings Road years later I saw the garden had gone as wild as a suburb would allow. The postcard might have lasted longer if I’d buried you there like a cat.

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