stand back:
I’m writing poetry
this requires two hands
one to hold the pen
one to grasp a piece of star
and determine how it feels –
what’s it like when those
jagged edges cut the skin
and does the blood glisten
as much as this artefact I
stole from the sky
stand back:
this is going to get messy
there is crimson on the page
crimson on my palms, crimson
on the pen and now crimson in
my mouth and the metallic tinge
is how I imagine stars taste but
I have to know for sure so I
lean down and touch the tip of
this fragment of space mountain
with my tongue and it is like a
silver shard of sugar tainted by
the darkness that has tried to
engulf it for a million years but
it has endured until now – now,
now it heaves its last breath as
it lies in my hand. I have plucked
it from its habitat and I have
killed it. turns out the darkness
was the only thing keeping it
alive, and it flushes gently,
dimming for longer with each
pulse until it is nothing but a
piece of grey coal and my
vermillion hands are glowing
as if it has given its life to them.
