Constellations

Constellations

There are constellations upon my skin.
Moles on torso—no one has taken notice
of Orion's belt formed by the dark dots
on pale skin—a negative of the night sky.
On my back, three have irregular shapes,
the light from benign distant stars distorted
by the years. In the latissimus dorsi nebula
I see Pegasus, striding the sky of my skin
as I move my arm, shoulder muscles, back tissue.
Like planets beyond our solar system, I wait
for someone to take notice of the unseen.
When my heart goes supernova, when strangers
will at last gaze upon the galaxy I form,
perhaps they will pause at the patterns
and think: That looks just like Andromeda,
which someone pointed out when I was young.