Daniela Ochoa
The Flood of a Celestial Body

Candlelight swayed to the vibrations of Coltrane—
if he wrote scales with poetry I could recite them
backwards.

I want to lick fire and taste what flames do
before breath suffocates them—

I’m being seared from within.

When your face gets too close to the sun
I’ve hung with string onto my cervix—
and a constellation of stale flesh spills over
your bed—will you recognize me?

Hear me out. Do you seep planets, too?

Place your worn, chipped palms
on these sheets damp with milky way
we never nurtured.

How can you tell our wetness apart?

Baby, we had a name for you.