CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR She writes down a phrase. Something about stars. I want to warn her: don’t catch their cold in a jar. What’s written on an empty sky is perilous. How a whole life unfurls from a single seed. Eat your verbs. When you trust your fresh body to an ocean you don’t understand, shivers are your answer. Gather mismatched blankets and pile the weight of weightless men on you. When you ride home across a hill at midnight, your bike moving along its spine, do not think of what’s moving in the depths of the bay below. Wonder at the crater lake floating between your hips, a mass of tangled nebulae, the lacy chandelier swinging from the roof of your uterus. Point to where it hurts, the inexorable pull of the tide, pilot whales lost under the bridge, blurry sky maps in the whites of their eyes. Don’t look up. Shh. Don’t wish on every star bright. Refrain from Latin. Stop uttering words you don’t understand. When you read in a book, Per aspera ad astra, through hardship to the stars, don’t yoke your small breasts to distant suns. Go to the thrift shop like a normal teen. Browse other holey cardigans. Pick out a nice pair of pink ovaries. Choose the happy way.
Carly DeMento’s first word was moon. She is a writer, musician and activist who lives in Encinitas, CA. She holds a BA in Poetry, Music, and Environmental Studies from San Francisco State University and has performed poetry and music nationally and internationally.
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