The Stars Align As Dominos by Logan February Caffeine and chamomile are dancing again. The music is cricket song refrigerator hum (maybe there are angels too). I put a heavy book on the pile of excuses I make for the silence. Hardcover with melted insides; I soaked up acid rain with my tongue before I knew how to dance in it. There is no sleep tonight, no stars; the entertainment is more mockery than joy. Orion took off his belt and gave it to me as a peace offering, as a hair-tie, but I chopped my hair off (a second ago, he doesn't know, he does not know). Stick a mantra in my head now, stick my finger in a socket now, sticks and stones replace my bones, but my spine is divine—I am hardcover (with melted insides). I never quite learned how to name the constellations, but I do own a telescope. (I should have got a rifle instead, I never saw a shooting star, but I'm sure I could shoot one myself if I tried.) It is early May, and the rains are here, time to stick my tongue in the air and dance with the chemicals (caffeine, chamomile, carbon monoxide.) I tried to stick my finger in a socket— I have the poorest aim. I never quite learned how to name the constellations, but then again, I don't need to. The stars only gather in line until it comes time to collapse, and the people who promise good nights never really know what they're talking about.
Logan February is a Nigerian poet. He loves words and pizza and typewriters. His first chapbook is due for release in 2017. Say hello to him on Instagram @loganfebruary.