Poetry

Pluto Deposed

One moment I was riding wide
at the rim, youngest of nine brothers,
circling our fiery dad.

Now it seems I’m not even a bastard,
son of a sun—rather it seems,
a grey sludge of dust and ice
failing properly to cohere.

May I remind you of all the children
who have carefully learnt mnemonics
such as My Very Excellent Mother
Just Served Us Nine Pies?
Their trust has been betrayed.

Order disrupted,
no wonder brother Neptune,
next in line, is restless
in his orbit.

Dwarf planet then, you say,
attempting to placate me.
I reject your condescension.

William Rush

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