Before the falling of all
iron and iridium carbonacious
crust, and frozen dust, before the meteor
unremembered the world
and the world’s world, the ocean
and all the ocean’s followers, there
was before. Of teeth and mouths
and skin as nuanced as the sky’s sky,
the ocean lapping all, lapping none. The ocean,
the sky, the hierarchy
of mouths. Then the fall, the iron, the metal
core. The moon gave up all
pretense. The sun gave up everything. The wind,
purple and enlarged with grief, carried
the meteor’s rhymes to the poles and returned
in rounds to re-teach it. The earth did not
know how to respond
until it did. All life there ever was
was once frozen dust careening
into the worst of us; a meteor falling
into the earth which is us falling into our own
muck which is already falling
into its own hole ever opening, ever falling.
You can’t feel it but it’s true. That noise?
The body falls into itself, on a planet spinning
so fast life feels fixed; falling
into a mouth devouring a mouth
devouring a mouth.
Cassandra Whitaker is a trans writer from the rural south. Their work has been published in Little Patuxent Review,Kitchen Table Quarterly, The Daily Drunk, &Anti-Heroin Chic, among other places.