Abby Murray

DECOLONIZE THE STARS

I would like to meet the person

who first saw the stars at night

 

and decided they were more

than matter, dark matter, and energy—

 

specifically, the man who

weaponized fragments of old light

 

by claiming them for gods,

or worse, for fate, the tyrant

 

who can always be explained

by space: reasons to rape, for example,

 

or go to war, or give too much

power to one person or place,

 

or take power from those

who spend it on modest delights

 

like food and a roof. I am no astronomer.

I am not even good at math.

 

I am simple, but smart enough

to know that hydrogen, helium,

 

and light are in a forced relationship

with heaven and all his men.

 

I know, too,

that if this original bastard

 

didn’t start a religion based on

what he didn’t know,

 

his cousin would have,

and besides, stars will remain

 

more like stars than destiny

no matter what I do.

 

Why try to reignite

what is snuffed in the name of sanctity?

 

I should just enjoy the light

that limps into my eyes,

 

be grateful I am not a constellation

yet—but still,

 

I’d like to meet him, the first sore

stargazer, Mr. Sky Made Me Do It,

 

and I’d very much like

to kick him in the crotch.

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