Three thousand light-years away there is a flame
that will explode at any moment. They call her
the blaze star. A recurrent nova. She has two eyes
double blinking over a valley of ashes, empty
space in the wake of radiant collapse. This story
has already happened—a ravenous wanting
in the shadow of my heart. I was a telescope once,
a continuous stretching. Now I turn to rage
before I ghost. My molecular body winking
from across the room, everyone else square-dancing
in the center. There is no gravity here. Only the star
and her allies waiting for fate. The last time
she died was in 1946. The news was everywhere:
twelve Nazi criminals sentenced to hang.
My grandmother squinted into that same
sky and made a baby. Maybe she saw it—
violent and bonebright. She wasn’t looking up
for forgiveness. She didn’t need to be understood.
I want it to end that way, mid-morning on a Monday.
Burning burning burning for no reason at all.