scholtzia

i want to live on pluto and inherit from him the world’s uncertainty: live life in a year’s meager fraction, make snow cones that never melt, become nearly weightless and one-third ice. gracelessly i glide on patches of ice, hopskotching the moons of pluto and drifting into nothing, weightless, contemplating distant blues with such uncertainty my blood refuses to melt; my fingers twitch in fractions. my bones, too, fraction and my eyelashes get tipped with ice; numb lips whisper “melt,” but he refuses: pluto, with no uncertainty, makes my head weightless. my whole life i’ve wanted to be weightless, to stop be