The Gravity

Lore Graham


Saturn is watching me, you told me in your

final days. Saturn has been whispering in

my ear, tugging at my soul,

                        crushing me


I held your hand under brassy clouds and listened.


In my dreams I see the steel wire of my life, days

as millimeters, stretched out in the fog where I

can’t see its beginning or its end, you said.

And Pluto comes, in Its Gray Robes, but even Its

scissors can’t sever the line, not even when I beg,

choking on the fog

                                the wire gleams unbroken.


I told you, gently, foolishly, that you should see a priest.


Now I realize, priests are only people like you and I.

This seeps deeper than Rhea’s oceans, hangs thicker

than Titan’s yellow smog. Saturn’s gravity is unimaginable.


I was the one who found the remnants of your garden,

all ashes and blackened pots, burnt promises and broken

vessels that left black dust on my hands.


Saturn’s gravity is unimaginable. Yet Sol is terribly

larger, and Sol is many magnitudes weaker than

hungry Betelgeuse, blinding Rigel, paling in

comparison to the black hole in the

galactic center, spinning



We are so small. Fleeting.

This giant was eons old when our species was born

and the gravity is unimaginable.


You had started teaching me to garden, how to cut

stems and leaves neatly, why the different soils

mattered, when to remove blossoms for new growth.


Your last lesson is crueler, dripping salt into my wounds

and rubbing it into the soil you used to so lovingly

cultivate. Cold and black now, just like space.


I do not want to hear, but your words echo in my head

as I lie sleepless. The smog is rolling in tonight.

                        Saturn is crushing me too



Lore Graham is a queer author of speculative poetry and fiction who lives in Massachusetts. Their poetry has been published in Strange Horizons, Liminality, and Mythic Delirium, among other venues.