Revelations of the Star
Wormwood, the star that falls, holds the bitter appetite
of stars that bite on the edge of woods. The woods
uphold the velvet night, a midnight blue pulled
from the box of the new child at school, blue child,
sharp as a new star.
A star in the eye, that dust of light, hurts bitter as a river
in dusty fire, cinders turning worms. Fires don’t burn out
but outlast the lungs of shores which surely breathe. What
we could do together is lost in one breath, like water met
by a star with a name.
Small Frame
In the altar of the star, a woman.
In the wasp come out of the barn
to chase the man mowing,
anger crimson as star’s burning,
that living. Who knew so much anger
could fill such a small frame?
It bursts the walls of the loft, the floors
of veins. The wood stopped living when cut
and was divided into beams to hold weight,
and the wasp has clung
to it, solitary female beginning the nest,
queen who hid through winter. The males
serve their time and die. The daughters
help with construction, chewing
the wood to paper. Winter,
all die but the new queen,
daughter hidden in paper.
