#pluto poem

My timid planet

She was once happy, despite being the furthest from her sun and her siblings.

She was still included.

But she has since been cast aside.

Abandoned by her family.

Stripped of her title as planet, she is now an outcast.

All because she was "too small."

She wonders why her sun is still holding onto her

But she is too far away to hear her voice.

Small pluto.

Pathetic pluto.

Poetry Foundation Browse: Poems » Poets » Poetry Magazine

BY FATIMAH ASGHAR On February 7, 1979, Pluto crossed over Neptune’s orbit and became the eighth planet from the sun for twenty years. A study in 1988 determined that Pluto’s path of orbit could never be accurately predicted. Labeled as “chaotic,” Pluto was later discredited from planet status in 2006. —————————–

Pluto Shits on the Universe

“Today, I broke your solar system. Oops. My bad.

Your graph said I was supposed to make a nice little loop around the sun.

Naw.

I chaos like a motherfucker. Ain’t no one can chart me. All the other planets, they think I’m annoying. They think I’m an escaped moon, running free.

Fuck your moon. Fuck your solar system. Fuck your time. Your year? Your year ain’t shit but a day to me. I could spend your whole year turning the winds in my bed. Thinking about rings and how Jupiter should just pussy on up and marry me by now. Your day?

That’s an asswipe. A sniffle. Your whole day is barely the start of my sunset.

My name means hell, bitch. I am hell, bitch. All the cold you have yet to feel. Chaos like a motherfucker. And you tried to order me. Called me ninth. Somewhere in the mess of graphs and math and compass you tried to make me follow rules. Rules? Fuck your rules. Neptune, that bitch slow. And I deserve all the sun I can get, and all the blue-gold sky I want around me.

It is February 7th, 1979 and my skin is more copper than any sky will ever be. More metal. Neptune is bitch-sobbing in my rearview, and I got my running shoes on and all this sky that’s all mine.

Fuck your order. Fuck your time. I realigned the cosmos. I chaosed all the hell you have yet to feel. Now all your kids in the classrooms, they confused. All their clocks: wrong. They don’t even know what the fuck to do. They gotta memorize new songs and shit. And the other planets, I fucked their orbits. I shook the sky. Chaos like a motherfucker.

It is February 7th, 1979. The sky is blue-gold: the freedom of possibility.