If I could press a constellation of black stars between my fingertips
and not get burned

maybe I could figure out

where the spaces went

between the mica and quartz

in this chunk of granite that I’m holding up to the sun

or who my salt and pepper colored husband was

the emeralds in his eyes packed into full moons rising between lashes

stuffed with juxtaposed emotions, rust colored freckles, a poetry speckled mouth,

supporting chapped lips flecked with foam

who waited several days before chiseling white and black whiskers off his face,

sent special deliveries of tightly wrapped daisies,

text messages, voice mails

and a hand made card asking me to wear his ring

through court house doors to ebony colored “I do’s” baked onto crisp cut parchment

where our names melted together on a marriage certificate

which he carried lightly in his left hand, the heel of his right palm crushing small winged bones in my fingers,

the sinews in his neck trembling as he laughed

lips overflowing with Pepsi’s, and “I love you’s”, the cores of his lower rotten teeth grimacing

as he threw keys at spaces between my shoulder blades

breaking spaces between boards for a living,

forcing hammers and nails and hunting knives into empty pockets when we went hiking

“I could kill you out here and no-one would ever know”

I grew afraid  I would drown in the valleys between our fingers

where my webbing used to catch mountain breezes

and I dreamt that I could fly

So I dropped him and the chunk of granite,

watched black stars chip off

the constellation

over the crags of the cliff.

Served  him papers.

Demanded

space.