By Sarah Mills
My horoscope says there’s big change coming, but with the missing article I can’t take it seriously. There’s big change coming. Let’s go to Jupiter where we’ll never run out of moonlight and I can fall asleep to Ganymede’s albescent glow on your skin. White is the absence of color. Last night I dreamt that we admitted our feelings but were both afraid. That’s love. Two fools always waiting for the other. I hear there is no sadness on Jupiter—rings made of dust instead of ice. Once I wrote I would be grateful just to be space 
junk orbiting your planet and I hated myself for it. Cardinals’ wings fluttering like red flags, their lilting calls from the thick of a spruce. Everything hopeless. I need more science. Facts. There are no birds on Jupiter—something you might miss. Still, I’m packing my things, looking at a hundred versions of myself in the mirror and picking the one that seems most capable of loving you in Jupiter Years—the red, raging, anticyclonic storm that you are. When we get there, let’s not wait to say I love you. It’ll be first on our list. Say I love you. Find a source of oxygen. A solid place to land.
Sarah Mills is a Pushcart-nominated writer whose poetry has been published or is forthcoming in HAD, Rust & Moth, The Shore, SoFloPoJo, Beaver Mag, Anti-Heroin Chic, Ballast, Miniskirt Mag, and elsewhere. You can visit her at sarahmillswrites.com, and on Bluesky @sarahmillswrites.
MoonPark Review 