On looking at the Pointers

It looks as if spatial distances do not exist for electrons.
— Michael Heller

O being
on Proxima B, are you
made of liquid
water and chains
of carbon? Hair,
feather, scale,
bark, or something else?
Photon sensors adapted
to Proxima’s red? What do you
call the Centaurs? How
do the constellations look
from there? Are you
looking back
at us, yellow Sol
in your sky? Have your
people, like mine, measured
the light-years, and counted
four? O being
on Proxima B, closest
exoplanetary soul
there’s likely to be,

is a lepton of my heart
entangled with a lepton
in yours (whatever you use
as a heart) from a time
when they could touch, way back
near the Beginning, in a dream
in which they touch, way in
at the Beginning? If so,

I send you love. Using
the top-down causality
of my organic complex system,

I spin my lepton to yin
so yours may spin to yang.
O being on Proxima B,
can you feel the sunshine?

From A coat of ashes.

Proxima B is a potentially Earth-like planet orbiting the star nearest us, Proxima Centauri, a red dwarf. Proxima Centauri is too faint to be seen with the naked eye. It is the third star of the Alpha Centauri system, which is the “trailing” member of the two Pointers that accompany the Southern Cross. To the naked eye, Alpha Centauri looks like one star, but it is actually a triple. freestarcharts.com/alpha-centauri

The epigraph is from p. 258 of “Where Physics Meets Metaphysics”, pp. 238–277 of On Space and Time, edited by Shahn Majid, Cambridge University Press 2008.

Top-down causality: The Systems View of Life: A Unifying Vision, by Fritjof Capra and Pier Luigi Luisi, Cambridge University Press 2014, pp. 205–206.

The dappled shallows

They’ve put a waste pipe in the middle of our feeding grounds.
“They” is the humans. The waste pipe is their collective arsehole.
I know what it is because the dolphins called a meeting.

I want to swim with my shoal in the dappled shallows and chase the little fish.
I want to dance with a partner and lay the eggs somewhere safe and flit away.
I don’t know how to do anything more and I don’t want to have to learn.
I want to swim, swim, swim with my shoal and breathe delicious water.

But they’ve put a waste pipe in the middle of the dappled shallows.
The water is grey and smells like death and I don’t
know what to do. The dolphins don’t know, either.

First published in Creatrix 38, September 2017

wet vacuum

Did you ever dream
you were suckling?
I did, once.

A mouth filled
with the breast —
not my mother,
not Gillian:
the breast

A mouth filled,
inner skin
lined with skin,
a mouth, an I,
I, an I,
space filled
with a firm cushion
sealed in by my
wet vacuum,
moulded, changed by my
action

They weaned me at nine
months
Onto a cup
No more wet vacuum
No more
changed by my action
No more
inner skin lined with skin

What a good girl
Look how grown-up our
girl is

After that I sucked my own
thumb
It has a hard centre
It gives no milk

First published in Creatrix 35, December 2016

Coffee

At 3am. The messages.
Something about coffee.
A while later,
a disclaimer. Coffee
means coffee.

What did he want?

Probably nothing.
Probably he types his message
looking at my Facebook with his cock in his hand
then after he shoots,
retracts.

To hell with that.

But coffee?
Three or four dollars a cup.
Much cheaper than loneliness.
You see it everywhere.
I told him Fridays were good.

Whatever

he’s doing now
do you think he’s
having good coffee?

First published in Creatrix 38, September 2017