Comet McNaughtThere is more than one sky.
The sky over Mars is probably red—
I don't know for sure.

The sun has long eaten its sky
with its fierce, hot lips.
The moon is cold to its sky,
hence, it is often dark.

Don't ask me about
the sky of Pluto—
I've never set foot
on that alien land.

I attend primarily
to one sky.
It fills its belly
with clouds daily,
it sips of ancient gases.

Sometimes, it grows grey
and washes its face with water.
And it has issues with the sun.
I would too—

I'd be at odds w/ anything
that skates on my skin
and leaves red trails across my back.

I sleep with this sky open,
it's easier on my dreams.

Like this,
I can accept the information
of the outer stars,
the moon can leak
its silver song.

And old Jupiter,
you can whisper if you wish,
but there are no guarantees.

But I am all ears
to the tale of a comet:

Its rocky history,
and its point of birth;
Will the fiery tear
splash unto the earth?

Are we supervised,
or under some dark neglect?

What language writes the hand
of the oldest architect?

First published in Barbaric Yawp
Copyright © 2005, Oke Mbachu

Image Credit: Andrew Trousdel (Jirrupin), some rights reserved

Oke Mbachu's poems and book reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in Boxcar Poetry Review, Caveat Lector, Contemporary Rhyme, DMQ Review, Red River Review and elsewhere. He writes and works in Illinois.