Poetry

The astronomer's wife

Her jealousies too absurd,
wordlessly livid, she
knits her knuckles, stares

over at the empty seat,
out to the shameless stars,
jangles her hair

across each solo hour,
blank as interstellar space,
straining her ears,

and summons the power
to size up her foe. How can it just
go on forever?

The plink of ice in gin
and edgy patter of her
calls to friends—

at least the return
of a comet can be
predicted with accuracy.

Of all the universe's
potential infidelities,
she endures the cruellest,

a rival too intangible to fight.
In the void
she can confront only,

lacking warmth or gravity,
the unimaginable, dark
distance between bodies.

Pete Green