Dear Papa,
Six in the morning
bathed in orange sunrise
I am jet-lagged, dizzy
from the wild orbit of my thoughts,
not used to unleashing constellations
from my mind’s dark matter.
Here my voice unfurls
in fragments, explosions and bursts of light,
hear your voice blending
to melt my stars,
writing feverishly
connecting the dots without drawing lines
between fact/fiction, yours/mine.
I tilt my head back and
stand vertiginous under the brilliant mess
of firmament. Unmoored and cradled
in the immensity of our private universe
no place to begin but the middle, we bumble
toward those distant gleaming pinpoints
through humming, pregnant space.
Viki Peitchev 