Callista Buchen

On Saturn
 
            First there are dual moons. One
on each side. There are two
            moons and a man with a telescope.
First there is a ring made of dust. Ice.
            Never water. First say the Japanese,
the ancient Chinese. Shadow
            clouds over fainter stars, and all
anybody sees, blink, are terrible
            flashes, darkness, blink. First march
Ottomans, the Turks. Stars come
            back, blink, and invisibility projects
cosmic highway, cosmic thoroughfare,
            cosmic folding screen. First then
hoop skirts. First there are Romans,
            Greeks. Hindus. An angel. First
Hebrews. Lightning a thousand times
            stronger. First there are three rings.
Hexagonal clouds that spin their pointed
            way. One ring only. First depends on
where a man stands with his
            telescope. On which mirror looks
at which mirror. Who can open
            his eyes the longest? The widest?
First, then, rejection of ovals. Blink,
            the arrogance of empty circle. But first
there is dynamic. Blink, first, symbol,
            notation, the rings keep going, trees
no one has found first. The telescope
            gets bigger, first the corners, a matter
of position, but nothing sees all the way
            around, or the pool of time in between.
 
 
 
 
Callista Buchen has an MA in literature from the University of Oregon and an MFA in creative writing from Bowling Green State University. Her work has appeared in Gargoyle, Gigantic, Bellevue Review, elimae, and others, with reviews published in Mid-American Review, The Collagist, and Prick of the Spindle.
 
 
 
 
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