by Kevin Henderson

That dry rock is not where your problems are.

 

Even if those wily gas giants conspire to collect

every icy knife from the Kuiper &

 

shred 

          Mercury into 

          iron shrapnel

 

dissolve 

          every molecule 

          into a trillion-ton

          comet melt

 

and fling 

          the soup into the 

          deepest black slosh 

          dripping with your

          spat accusations,

 

Mercury will still be dry 

and will always be 

crossing the Sun.

 

But you, 

oh wet one,

 

a dry rock is

 

always snaring 

          some corner of your ocean

​

always slid 

          from your wife’s sweat-soaked finger

​

always waiting 

          at the bottom of your wishing well

​

and a dry rock will always be

          just fine 

                    ripping 

                              you to shreds and threading 

                              your sloshy skin thins into 

                              a tiny wet belt even though 

                              its pants fit just fine. 

 

Your pants fit just fine

 

But 

 

Mercury’s pants 

are always dry.

 

Wet is where 

your problems are.