The Ex-Queen Among the Astronomers

[Fleur Adcock, 1979]

They serve revolving saucer eyes,

dishes of stars; they wait upon

huge lenses hung aloft to frame

the slow procession of the skies.

The calculate, adjust, record,

watch transit, measure distances.

They carry pocket telescopes

to spy through when they walk abroad.

Spectra possess their eyes, they face

upwards, alert for meteorites,

cherishing little glassy worlds:

receptacles for outer space.

But she, exile, expelled, ex-queen,

swishes among the men of science

waiting for cloudy skies, for nights

when constellations can't be seen.

She wears the rings he let her keep;

she walks as she was taught to walk

for his approval, years ago.

His bitter features taunt her sleep.

And so when these have laid aside

Their telescopes, when lids are closed

between machine and sky, she seeks

terrestrial bodies to bestride.

She plucks this one or that among

the astronomers, and is become

his canopy, his occultation;

she sucks at earlobe, penis, tongue

mouthing the tubes of flesh, her hair

crackles, her eyes are comet-sparks.

She brings the distant briefly close

above his dreamy abstract stare.