by Dan Overgaard
Erupting star, incinerating star:
the likes of which has never been observed
or measured in our skies—oh yes! we are
observing now, obsessively, but maybe not
as worshipfully as you might be wishing—
if, that is, you ever spent a wish on us.
And I’ve been searching, high and rather low,
for some device—an image or a metaphor
sufficiently sensational for you—
but you told us you’re a star, so let’s use that.
Astronomers who stay up late observe
astonishing phenomena so they can
measure light, and theorize. Most any night
they catch spectacular releases,
flares of blinding and exploding gas—
and you’ve got those, so we’ll be theorizing
for a long, long time about your molten core
of darkness and whatever’s broken there.
But it’s hardly theoretical—or celestial—
for everyone who’s burned by your debris.
In fact, you’re most unheavenly, the way
you’re not content to shine like other stars,
or hold your corner of our constellation up
so we can navigate or wish upon you
as our steady and illuminating guide.
Though stars, by definition, don’t have moons,
you’ve commandeered more moons than Jupiter,
and flogged them round about you til they blur
together, more like Saturn’s rings, and then
you trash them all unless they make you shine.
The stars out there do all their starry things:
forming and shining, guiding and blinking out.
It’s not fair to compare them in this way.
You claim to be our star while you are here,
but all your sucking needs may cave us in.
In time, you’ll be assessed by smarter
scientists than me, but frankly I don’t think
you’ll be the greatest in the firmament,
and I can tell you that this galaxy of ours
has never been—and won’t turn—white for you.
And so, collapsing star, we watch you burn.
You torch us as you smolder and pretend—
but though you smite us, we will not go blind.
Your gas is dissipating now, and soon—
before your end—you’ll be an empty dwarf.
Dan Overgaard was born and raised in Thailand. He attended Westmont College, dropped out, moved to Seattle, became a transit operator, then managed transit technology projects and programs. He’s now retired, and probably gardening or catching up on reading. His poems have appeared in Mobius, Santa Clara Review, Across The Margin, The Galway Review, pioneertown, As It Ought To Be, The High Window, and other journals.
