Jordan Cobb

How Constellations Are Made

What do you know of anger?
I wandered into Frost’s woods, too deep
to find them lovely; growth rings
lost all meaning. Found myself falling
onto the forest floor, groping blindly
through the rubble & leaves, palms
packing back into the muted earth,
fingers mottled from the muck.

I cursed Newton’s name.
Called him a cunt for being struck
by the apple & having the nerve to create
a word like gravity. Beneath the bark,
there is no dictionary. No place for
catharsis or cadence or conduit to slip
from the pages to my lips, to capture
the shape of my grief.

I wonder—can I skip a few years until
this is easy? Go to a place without cobwebs
cluttering the space between branches,
cutting crosses through the cosmos.
Who would have guessed I’d be jealous
of the spiders, their safety nets
catching constellations.

Well, fuck them & their tube-shaped hearts
& the naming of the stars.

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Jordan Cobb is a queer American poet raised across the south & Midwest. Previously an oncology nurse, she is currently working on her MSc in Creative Writing at the University of Edinburgh. Her work can be found in Outcrop Poetry, Gently Mad Literary Magazine, Lugarzine & the 2024-2025 edition of the anthology series From Arthur’s Seat.