Karina Borowicz’s first collection, The Bees Are Waiting (2012), was selected by Franz Wright for the Marick Press Poetry Prize. Her work has also appeared in AGNI, Poetry Northwest, and The Southern Review.
Planet Kepler 22B
They say they’ve found another
earth out there, greening like the shaded side
of a boulder.
I don’t know which direction
of the night sky to face.
But that planet’s there somewhere,
anywhere, despite me.
Despite everything that’s turning here
with me. The sleeping
winter colony of ants,
the radio tower’s red star
spilling the light of invisible mandolins,
the inner earth, our real
Milky Way, that glitters
with the minerals of ancestors,
the cave walls at Lascaux, where a herd
of red horses still circles in the darkness.
How I hated those white gloves, which smelled
of lavender sachet and whose seams
bit my fingers. After mass I’d hold out my hands,
palms up, and beg my mother to pull them off.
Sundays, too, we’d drive down to the bay
and feed the ducks that week’s leftover bread.
It was one of my father’s favorite things,
to walk softly to the water’s edge
and toss handfuls onto the surface.
Like toy sailboats the ducks would glide
leisurely over to claim the floating crusts.
Once I ventured out onto the boulders.
I looked down and could see the ducks’ yellow feet
paddling frantically beneath the surface.