Tonight I’m all set to not watch Jupiter
as it comes the closest to Earth it’s been since 1963,
the year after my dad’s birth and the year before
Picasso paints his fourth Head of a Bearded Man.
They say the midwife thought Picasso was stillborn,
weak and quiet as he was, slow to wear his own life.
They don’t say much about my dad and I think history
overlooks a lot. But I’m happy for the painters
and planets out there, at least some of us are glorious.
Despite preacher-talk and what I’ve envied in nature,
I actually don’t think there’s enough glory to go around.
Anyway: Jupiter’s just one of those things people remember
to care about, or pretend to care about, like when we’re all
in pieces and some helpful soul says well Jupiter’s in Pisces,
which it is right now by the way. It’s not quite fact,
this link between constellations and the human condition,
but I’m not opposed to codifying the astrology charts
if it makes dating and choosing world leaders easier.
Have you ever thought about how many beliefs
are held together by the word maybe?
You’ll be able to see Jupiter tonight
even if you live in a big city.
My dad has an idea for a novel
he’ll write in retirement.
The midwife left Picasso to die
a historically insignificant fate on the table.
(They’re always mad when they say this last thing
but I say the midwife will never get a name
in this poem or in any other
so let’s move on.)
For dinner I’m going to arrange Brussels sprouts
in the shape of our bloated bulging orbit
while hoping perhaps the scientists were off by a few
hundred million miles and Jupiter’s really coming down
for one last galactic smooch. I’ve never known anyone
who didn’t romanticize the apocalypse. I’m glad ours
is a dramatic species, but I do hope modern medicine
stops here. Please don’t keep any of us alive, even for the drama,
to see the next iteration of this phenomenon
in 2129. Let us merrily take all of this for granted.