The Heavenly Body

There was a star who, in rushing past the asteroid belt, got one of her rayons caught

On a snub of rock. She tore away; the beam of light stayed behind.

Stars do not bleed on amputation.

Now instead of shining towards the corners of the night with sixteen straight fingers

She had fifteen. Her brightness diminished by 0.0625. No one

noticed.

After all, there are plenty of stars, plenty of light-bearing fingers in the whole sky.

 

There was a star who gazed into the mirrored sea, seeing only one giant blot

of light against endless black,

a wrong mark,

a scribble

Unfinished, unwanted. In the quiet

She zoomed into her reflection, crashed through the glass ceiling of the ocean

and disappeared. No one noticed

After all, we still saw the sky populated by countless white dots

Sprinkled like petals on an endless hot bath. If the night lost one four-hundred-billionth

of its glitter, it didn’t matter

to the ground, enamored with eternal possibility

(For new stars are born faster than lost limbs can grow back.)

The boundless black can replace a speck, but a speck can’t replace her life

once she pinches it out.

 

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