I’ve named my body starry night

                               (scar-ry night, for all practical purposes)
and your    eyes
telescoping

dear Astronomer,
my skin is shades of purple,
my feet freckled in veins,
my nipples welcome  orbits
of deep zebra

s
 t
   r
     i
       p
         e
           s
my nails-
the color of
                 simple affection
and bloody marys…

daddy drinks on Saturdays and
my tummy is   one     inch     wide
when smothered in saturated
biceps
reminds me…
of an estuary by our house
where I saw a miracle
for the first time;
little perfect pink pearls
of five years old
                                  (conversely, and this is funny)
today,
I’ll grip my own small ones
around some engineer’s
sick creation
at a similar  small  body
of water, I want to pay for it but
I know I’ll
simply never be as strong as daddy  so,
dear Astronomer,
sometimes my nightmares tell me
that I am, “simply”,
sky-way illiterate.
But when I wake it is      I
to f i l l my skin again
instead of a track of tired screams
and high pitched text messages
and mint chocolate chip ice cream
stains
on my parents’ marriage quilt

that absolutely,     conversely,
sounds off adolescence
and the discovery of    “lesbianism”
Astronomer, (and I know you know that)
I guessed that navel gazing
is being
                  (or following?)
a school of boneless fish,
and remembering
nostalgia setting for the night
as my dirty painted toes shake  and  turn.
Dear Astronomer,
it was some years ago, I was eleven years old.
(I guess; this is simply a careless estimation)
My name was Astronomer
and her name was
“an angel”            because of
constellations drawn d  o  w  n her arms and
a
c
r
o
s
s
her gingham sundress.
I was young and needed
no telescope
to be (completely)
telegraphically,
confused.