SATELLITES ARE A FAR CRY FROM STARS
Baby, it’s dusk as we set-up rockets
inside beer bottles.
It takes a long time to perform
cunnilingus like a spaceship launch.
The numbers on my tongue
spacewalking your blood.
Baby, this rocket thrust trusts
your teeth will shine on its white hull.
I’m coming, too, with blackhole dreams
pressing G’s at the horizon. Weightless,
what it feels like exploring dark moons.
Found a freckle on your lips
I orbit until stars wink out.
I’m pressing your face
in my wallet-sized photo,
becoming the satellite
you were fascinated by
only to see its gravitas
disappear. I keep looking
through the telescope,
saying, That’s where the eye
reaches; That’s the freckle
in the sky I’m heading for.
I can’t promise you the moon
though I’m going past it.
Matthew Schmidt is working on a PhD in English at the University of Southern Mississippi. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in Hobart, Pleiades, Poetry South, The Seattle Review, and elsewhere. He is an associate poetry editor at Fairy Tale Review.