P.S. to the Stars

Kael Moffat

This is to the giant
red ones who swallow
themselves like snakes
and then shatter like hot glass,
glowing fragments spraying out
into the night.

I watch your slow
deaths from fields of brittle tares,
from cold stones on mountain tops,
and from the sands that hold
the ocean in its bounds.

I wonder what it's like
to die alone in the cold,
fleeing an unseen
point of explosion—an explosion
that fed the suns, fired the planets
like clay pots,
and gave the birds their wings.