Neptune

There is a planet on his shoulders.
 Are his shoes right?
  Is his taste in movies cultured enough?
    His jealously comes in rings.

Dear Neptune, no one
taught him how to kiss.
No body-celestial was bold enough
to enter his orbit.
Poor blue, he’s never had a moon
no satellite, no plaid clad asteroid bent on impact.

Neptune, full-color queer, quiet sky-lit sibling of Saturn.
He spins light years away from any cosmic object. He has
the names of men who discover and claim, comet past,
encircling his neck. Planets learn about themselves

through the telescopes of titans.
Neptune, forgive
your gravity
for not pulling anyone in.


Alex Vigue is a queer poet and storyteller from Vancouver, Washington, with a bachelor’s in creative writing from Western Washington University. His collection The Myth of Man was a finalist in the Floating Bridge Press chapbook competition and was published in 2017. His work has appeared in Vinyl, Maudlin House, Lockjaw Magazine, and elsewhere. Alex substitute teaches, works retail, and strives to make poetry accessible to everyone. Links to his work and contact information can be found at alexvigue.wordpress.com.

Photograph by Troy Taylor.

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