Taurus Season

I’m still happy with you.
Your soil on the counter, houseplant
in the empty butter container, glow-
in-the-dark stickers you sprinkled
throughout the house on your birthday—
creating your home out of earth and stars—
how I know you’re happiest bringing
the outdoors indoors by the dimple in the crease
of your mouth, the twirls in the kitchen
to music I had never heard of before.
At the start I’d been embarrassed during the drive
to The Home Depot, your truck’s windows rolled down
singing at red lights with total abandon.
Now I crave that. The agency,
the unapologetic grasping of life and self.
You refuse to make yourself smaller.
You tell me to stop cowering—Don’t be afraid
of the space you take up.
You’ve a right to be here, you are
made of stardust like the rest of us—
whatever willed me willed you too.
They said we’d fizzle out in a few months—
explode, implode—whatever stars do.
They said you had wrecked my home
and I’d wreck you in return
after I was through, finished lurking, experimenting
as a mad scientist, my break in reality,
manic me, how dare I step out,
how dare I disturb the universe.
They said three months and it’s been four
and you’re still my brightest star, my
constellation—stubborn bulls, earth children
dancing together in the kitchen.

Emily Seals (she/her) is a technical editor and received her MS in technical communication from Rolla, MO. She is a socially anxious dog mom whose dog has more social engagements than she does. They live in Auburn, AL, with her wife and many houseplants.