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 Vanessa Kittle is 35. She lives out on Long Island with her evil
kitten,
Sombrero. A former chef and lawyer, Vanessa is now an English
composition
professor. She published 2 collections of poetry in 2006: a
chapbook called Apart,
and a full-length book called Surviving the Days of the Empire,
both with The
March Street Press. Her work has recently been in The New
Renaissance, Nerve
Cowboy, Limestone, Ibbetson Street, and Porcupine Literary Arts.
She has written these poems in name of shushan and her writing partner
is from Australia, prefers to just be Fish.
*
the moon’s
gravity pulls
whisps off of astronaut’s
pulls oxygen from their lungs
right through their fancy space suits
small steps
then giant leaps
an exponential tide
that builds slowly
until it finds its escape velocity
then it can not be stopped
it will be free of the earth
to live amongst the black
which does not move
but only sparks with
orange and white
of stars moving together
there is no choice
when bodies feel each other’s pull
it is just orbits
growing ever smaller
it is a scientific fact
all heaving bodies
crash into each
other eventually.
**
australia will always be there
in places that go everywhere with you like a hat
a secret whispered into your mouth
i want to whisper others
one fire thing breathing air into another
danger playing with danger
fire joining fire
to make a larger blaze
and your voice whispers back
it holds the energy of a neutron star
a winter leaf
still on the tree
waiting
for the inevitable truth
wanting
the inevitable truth
you being
the only truth
as far as my eyes can see
and they see a lot
horizons far
in orbit
like two leaves falling and dancing
swirling in the wind
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