Catie Rosemurgy

The Prince on the Imposition of the Galactic


In the age of the stars, everything.
Piles of everything. The ratios and temperatures

are perfect. Why, in this universe, do limits feel
like a warning? Why does symmetry gape like a trap,
as if two matching children are about to be devoured?

I am the steam rising off a charging horse.
I am an injured pair of horns.
At the end of a long hallway I am still and unavailable.

Count this among your sorrows:
I have taken the housetops.
Whatever the night has been made of all this time
will soak right into you.

Make a note in my journals: how seditious the moon,
how exquisite the moisture.

I have ruled this country as well as I could
with death and feathers as my only tools.