Tora Estep and Rissa Miller

Tora Estep, untitled, oil on canvas



Rissa Miller



You’re considering a tattoo on your shoulder
in what I like to think of as the Orion system,
located between here and here on your skin.
My universe, your skin, all alive, sweet,
the multiverse of you-ness.
A rose, you say, or perhaps a chain of ivy?
An alien invader of my eternal constellations,
the freckles that trail your arms and neck.
Recognizable patterns and forms create legends across you.
Often my mouth leads me to the system of Andromeda.
Will the sword of Perseus cut me down, I wonder
as I glide along your spine, breathtaking distinctive flecks
already marking you, lovelier that the goddess herself.
Hers, a story of a beauty brought down by boasts.
The night sky holds 88 such tales.
Your body, though, so many more, each ever new to explore.
Centaur points his arrow, and you ask
What about a heart or a word, something with meaning?
I try to imagine it etched in ink on the cosmos.
At the edge of your neck, my lips connect stars, you to me.
Stargazing into the darkness, I encounter ruling planet Venus
as you settle on infinity.


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