Sonnet 3 Poem by Anthony Parker

Stars are exploding in my chest—
a miracle, a mystery with no
hands. My body is a grave—all cool
fruits and stray bones, the geometry of
water—an electric pulse, the echo
of color and shape. Fingers reach out
from every breath and I wake up, covered in
blankets that have held the tropics of you.

One night I found the shape
of your hand among constellations—you
exist in the hesitation of stars, hanging
upside down half the year. I am awake despite
the sleeping curves of my body, in another time
zone you are dreaming in metaphor.