the solar system on my brother’s bedroom ceiling
has moons, blue and honest, shooting-star comets
the universe is scary and small
as the flashlight in a memory of escape-artist blueberries
when a midnight snack turned to prison break,
we laughed at the bruises on our knees
microscopes and cell division in the blood of old religion,
hypnotized by cartoons on the television,
sent from a satellite in orbit, Jesus Christ for all we knew,
it doesn’t really make a difference when your mom just got the carpet cleaned,
ticking-time bomb blueberries
you said, “my spacesuit is not a halloween costume”
so I said, “why can’t I wear my girl scout uniform to school”
and what if we pretend we are still kids in the kitchen,
and all the reasons we have grown apart are only blueberries,
can we laugh at bruised knees?
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