The Other One is Cassiopeia
There’s a bear at the back of my throat,
camouflaged—
but you can hear it;
and if you look closely,
maybe even catch the glint
of a bottomless
mortality.
Sometimes
it nosedives,
following the current down
to maul my guts
with laughter—
tears running into estuaries. They
say salmon
swim upstream each year
—that it’s innate—
returning to an open womb despite
the dementia,
but I don’t believe in
fate’s maw
and only know four constellations
or see two
with any regularity.
© Simon Turner