Galaxies

By Laura Haugen

July 4, 2016

Galaxies

Say that this space on her forehead where you smooth tangled tresses to plant a kiss once, perhaps twice for good measure, smells like daisies, grassy and warm and kind of sweet like fermented earth because when did this astronaut, your junior park ranger, the paleontologist-wannabe last bathe? There is no time this time, in this age of no-time, time that spins in ballerina shoes leaping across years to then dig for fossils with trucks in a sandbox, now taking off running to hunt for frogs, one-last-look, and hey do you see the stars, do you? Say this and smile at her tights jumbled and scrunched at the knees, a sparkly tutu you got at the dollar store in size 2T that still fits, her jean vest and patches from parks where she interrogated summer hires about geysers and bison and the migration of geese, those inquisitive eyes so blue it hurts, but: Say you will always scoop sand and sew patches and map constellations; for her you know you’d eat daisies and bathe in tadpole slime any day; say you can’t bear it, the beginning the end and, oh, that delicious gooey middle, the entirety of her universe, every cosmic speck flashing by. Yes, little comet, say it all, say it again, say it over and over in the spinning galaxies of time, but don’t say it out loud. Say just this, the one thing, maybe three: I love you; nice shades; have a good day at school.

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