1790 c/o Eleanor Chandler

after Adrienne Rich
for Caroline Herschel

I stand over
the sink and wretch making
no sound


brave —
nevermind all that wavy noise

I think those asteroids are just
diamantes flung into acrid tar


the only true galaxies are monsters
in the shape of women

the colony of an invisible amanuensis


during sex I like to think
about the glass ceiling

the one with a surface
of constant negative


jiggling the light that is still
reaching us when we were younger

and ambition felt roomy
under our armpits


I drop another pin
in the strata of catalogues

we stand yet
as if by some
deep suckage it vanishes
just like the others


someone pats me on
the back and tells me
I should sit down