dark matter

Amanda Conover

she/her

This popcorn ceiling looks like
   a swarm of stars,
and I’m trying to convince myself
the square of polystyrene
is a smaller-scaled model
of the actual sky, and if I try hard enough,
I’ll find all of the hidden
dippers and zodiacs
lurking above.
In this swamp of particles,
I can’t find anything,
or I find everything and can’t tell
which thing is what, but all I know is
I like how the light warps
the bumps near the lamp to look harsher,
   like if I touch the stars over there,
they’ll sting me back to the reality
that this is just a ceiling, not a basin
   of popcorn or a field of asteroids
   or a place to daydream to avoid
   facing the facts.
Like that 95% of the universe is dark matter
and energy,
so there’s no use pretending
stars don’t have shadows,
that if I keep looking, I’ll find
   light where it’s not.
That darkness
won’t crush anything it can
if given the chance.

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Amanda Conover is a queer poet, currently based in Peoria, Illinois, who often explores themes of existentialism, spirituality, and social issues. She is the poetry editor for Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine and a recent MFA alum who works in scholarly publishing. Her poetry has been published in Atlanta Review, the lickety~split, Sad Girl Diaries, and elsewhere. Find her at amandaconover.com or on Instagram @amandamconover.