Space Rocks

Ruth Madievsky

I mouth you into a corner.

I mouth you as if there’s a gun to my head,

a man in a ski mask

shouting, Mouth him or it’s all over—

no more pool parties, no more

washing each other’s hair,

or walking his dog

through the loud grass of spring.

Everything about me

that is astral:

all my lightning,

all the fists I’ve kissed

like the cheeks of cousins, all my horses

of loneliness

thunder down your throat. Open wide

for the sound of a pizza cutter

slicing asphalt. You may

develop a taste

for the flammable. I am not an oracle,

but I have crawled on my knees

toward the eye

of our future. I have buried our names

beneath the sidewalk

and returned to find grapevines

in their place.

I crush the grapes, drink

the wine, I climb a tree and do not

become a star. Let these

be the bodies

space rocks bore.

If they demand them back,

let us recognize

the beauty in that.

Ruth Madievsky is the author of a poetry collection, Emergency Brake, which was named Tavern Books’ 2015 Wrolstad Contemporary Poetry Series selection and was published in February 2016. Ruth’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Tin House, The Iowa Review, Gulf Coast, Prairie Schooner, ZYZZYVA, Rattle, and elsewhere. She was a 2015 Tin House scholar in poetry and reads chapbook submissions for Gold Line Press. She is originally from Moldova and lives in Los Angeles, where she is a doctoral student at USC’s School of Pharmacy. You can find her at