There’s a type of spray rose that embeds itself
in you in such a way that you can’t shake free
of it even a week after its thorns pierce
your tender skin.              

        They burrow in, infecting your finger pads.            
        Raising the question of pus and when and            
        how it will drain.                  The problem is  

the thorns are tiny. Pervasive. Like the scales
of a fish. Or pollen in June. You barely touch them
and they’re already in you, velcroing themselves
to your active hands like              

        countless little kiddos hanging on arms, begging
        to show you what they’ve made, what they see.
        Their whole world right in front of them.  

I look up. Venus is 63.187 million miles away
from me, today. Not even this is a constant.  

        Her light is lush and soothing. The beam
        a miracle of gratitude.  

I say thank you.
I know I am more than this.  

But, the thorns call. Pressing. Hot with fever.
I consider how to remove them before the
infection spreads. I worry the thumb and
weigh my options,  

        gnawing the flesh absent-mindedly
        while mulling over other things like  

how far away the planets are.  

        The easiest way to tell Venus from Mars.  

Whether or not I’ll have children.  

Without meaning to I find myself finding
solace in sucking what was once my everything.
My mouth puckering against my own soft flesh.
Nursing the wound.              

        I look back up at Venus. The light’s gone            
        dim. But, I’m sure it’s nothing.  

A passing cloud.                        

        A cosmic shift of galactic traffic.  

A moment of rest.