the water in the vase of your sun flows fish through the heart of your venus
by Adriana Beltrano

aquarius holds her robes up by her thigh so she does not trip over them
her palm grows sweaty scrunching the sleek silk in a fist attached to the waist
you may see what little under things she is wearing through the gap
but stars do not have humility
they do not know shame like you or i
in the other mighty hand she presses her pithos against breast
it is heavy with water
she doesn’t know what heaviness is
she’s done this too many times before
the sun as her crown is no longer hot
her hair does not melt
it rides cosmic waves
she releases her skirts in a flapping of seagull’s wings
gravityless
and gingerly she tips the jar
it plinks against the hard protective shells of the stars
bite into them and they will have molten centers of white wine and juice of lemon
but the drops do not stay with the stars 
her water flows through the heavens until it becomes fish, twin fish, tied together by curly hair at the ends
they flop and smack against each other in that squishy way fish do
you have seen fish flop on docks, on tile, a seesaw pattern of lifted face to the inverted lifted tail
as they grasp for a breath of salt and sea
these starlit fish do not gasp
they ride through space like it is water
the teenier stars are their feed
and they revel in the extravagant centers
as aquarius revels in her fish market 
they hit your venus and fall through its gaseous center
the planet of love is unsolid 
you can’t step on it or roam the surface as a traveler
but the fish pass through on their journey from your sun and its typhoon of water 
and they show you the way to love
pass on through
become all consumed
gas against scales