in which i name all of the planets after her

Twitter poets want to know how we define our grief. We are
always writing about what our grief looks like, aren’t we? Every
single body I’ve ever loved is a crushed little star. Even on
summer days I stick out my tongue—hoping to catch snow.
Some poet say their grief is seeing their loved ones in the
sunsets. Sunsets are the new Rushmores. Poets are liars
obsessed with overused sky metaphors. But so am I.

Because I do see my grandmother in every bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. I hear her
curiosity in the love language of owls outside my window. I see her in the faces of women walking
around Times Square. I see her. On the streets. I see her in the Statue of Liberty’s crown, taking
polaroids of a shrinking city. I want everyone to name everything after her. I know the fifty dollars we
spend on naming stars means nothing, but there is an entire junkyard of abandoned stars. Stars with
names of separated loved ones already living above my grieving head. I see new colors in the sky and
know they must be planets. They must be. And they are mine, so I shall name them. My astronomy
professor tells me they are not planets. They are stars. But professor, this is my grief. Finding a new
planet in my night sky. My grief is naming that planet after her, tricking myself into believing that
planet hasn’t already been discovered and doesn’t already have its own name.