The Meteorite

Our room grew a hole when
the sky landed by our heads
and, when meteorite met
bed of linen taut with
our stereotypical tensions,
the walls gasped for air

You and I roll out to
satellite lives, discrete
roles on a split screen,
the obvious rock between
when the ceiling leaks

If we point to the spot,
camping out on the rock
—make peace with a ceiling
gaping absurd fate—can we
laugh that our autopilot
under this humdrum canopy
was spiced up by space debris?

Jessica Lee McMillan

Jessica Lee McMillan is a poet with an MA in English. She likes crooked, shiny things and explores existential frameworks and perceptions in nature and music. Read her in Blank Spaces, Pocket Lint (A New Journal), Goat's Milk Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, Tiny Spoon and Dream Pop Journal, among others. She writes from the charming, gritty, river city New Westminster in British Columbia.