Three Poems by Keiraj M. Gillis

 

Pluto’s Star Cradle

 

How dare you forget about me?

You fold me away into a photo album

with my purpose—once gilded in nobility—

distilled down now to a curation of memories.

 

I have cradled Heaven’s stars, yet you fail me!

There were none but you so beautifully bejewelled.

But as Samson’s brawn would wane to frailty,

so my bones now show

where there once was muscle.

 

You forget me, and yet it was I

who stood as eldest brother

in the presence of Jupiter;

you dismiss me, and yet it was I

who listened when Neptune

descended like a moody nocturne;

you omit me, and yet it was I

who recorded the victories of Mars

and the failings of Saturn;

 

I am an envoy of the very hand of the Creator,

the appraiser of relics—I declare their worth.

I’m the reason a Scorpio finds love

and then is wary

not to love too intensely

lest they somehow be hurt.

 

And yet you forget me.

I have cradled Heaven’s stars,

and yet my future is now your history.

Devil’s Manicure

 

Nails, claws, talons—

            whatever you want to call them—

they’re sharp.

His manicurists are impish swathes.

 

He always wheedles to play,

but it’s too dangerous.

A rogue jerk of the wrist

is a beheading

if he’s not paying attention.

 

He’s a rottweiler in need of grooming:

large and dark and poised to scar

if not aware enough

of his movements.

Energy to spare

and nothing to lose.

 

If we see a head roll nearby,

he’s chastised.

“The Devil surely did this!”

But we can’t confirm he intended it.

 

Who yells at the sea when a swimmer,

out of his depth,

is lost to it?

Surely the sea would control its strength

if it could.

 

Who, then, is to blame

if one’s beheaded on the blade

of that manicure?

The Wind’s Already Blowing

 

The wind’s already blowing,

so you don’t need to comb your hair,

 

the same way a mermaid needn’t dry off

after falling in love on the surface

of the waves;

 

tragedy skulks behind regardless,

 

whether the mermaid finds herself descaled,

or you find yourself with hair blown

so horrendously stiff

it’d impale a low-flying pigeon;

 

tragedies of each of the

human,

piscine,

and avian

varieties, all commensurately

hyperbolic.

 

But human tragedies are the worst,

as humans see them coming—

more or less

(they may not have the details)—

but the end result

is entirely expected.

 

Why comb your hair in gusty weather?

Why sprint away to safety

with gangrenous legs?

Keiraj M. Gillis is a gothic and spiritual poet whose works explore the mind, heart, and arcane. His poetry collections include St. Sagittarius, The Gentleman Vagrant, and Handsome for One More Day, which are works that have allowed him to document his spiritual journey. He enjoys his work as a publisher and spends his time immersing himself in the culture of the American South and Southwest.