Poetry: C.E. Chaffin


Something’s not right
something important
not your expired insurance
or the burner left on
or the dog home alone
with his paws in the fan,

Not the crocodile
bellying down the bank
or a tear in the fascia
of your quadriceps
but as if the slightest amperage
had been sapped
from your life’s current.

Something is wrong.
You don’t know
when or how you were diminished
but your eyes no longer fit
the bronze cavities
of the colossus you were.

Beginning with the Pleiades

Like white pepper thrown against the night
there are six, not seven sisters—
and Orion’s dog looks nothing like a dog.

Not to sour on the Greeks,
but if they had not suborned the distant suns
into a Zodiac, would our imagination
so founder in Hubble’s brilliant riot
that no stick men could be drawn?

Sure the stars were kidnapped
but what artist among us
could top a darkness
woven with bright gods?