Charon & Pluto

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I gawk at stars I’ve never seen before while her uncle
powers up tools in the garage. The bolts have been stripped to hell, 

but, hopefully, the university can forgive our smuggling of school property.
I trace the Dipper with my finger, squinting for Orion. All kissed and 

captured, I think myself the Charon to her Pluto. My arm slides around
her waist while she casts a glance over her shoulder, but 

Uncle Jack is enjoying himself too much to notice the blatant lesbianism 
happening on the gravel drive. I’m tidally locked: shoulders facing hers, 

eyes studying her face. “I can’t believe he gets to see these all the time,” 
I murmur as she rolls her eyes. I haven’t yet learned the gesture is at my expense.

In my love-addled state, a scoffed “city people” has 
the same meaning as “you’ve never seen these before?”

And although they are too small to see, I feel Charon and Pluto watching;
somehow, they’ve reached some sort of gravitational equilibrium, 

brushing lips in the dark, hands clasped and foreheads pressed together. 
They spin across the cosmic dancefloor 248 years at a time —

supernova lights blaring, the celestial bass thudding. Gay and merry and 
as many stars as asteroids can buy. They hurtle across the sky while 

my lover extricates herself from me. Flesh and bone instead of 
rock and ice: we are unable to orbit one without damaging the other.