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.