Carrie Fisher died within a milky-clouded sky sleep & I
imagine her mother’s ventricles clogging with honey.
If heaven is a hive, I want to swim in it, like the way a
Falcon does with space, cosmos beading off its wings.
Loss is an act of inheritance: two houses entombed in
amber, carbonite; family photographs, antiques webbed
in hexagons.
My body is a white dress sewn of ash, Prozac urn, wishful
wedding-funeral. Inside of me lives my father’s mother &
my mother’s mother & everything my mother taught me,
too. I call Carrie my Space Mom to make myself feel
closer to the newest star of grave soil.
After we are long long dead & this planet’s two suns have
been extinguished, we will burst with light to greet the
world again as keepers of a millennia, the royalty of
galaxies & garden trellises: a fresh & new & brilliant
hope.