A star’s size seems unfathomable to us,
but it deteriorates like everything else.
The wounded know stars are a furnace
for mankind’s sins. The wounded curl themselves
into a ball of starlight, wishing for release
from this basement triage in Raqqa,
wishing for release from the phantom pain
of their amputated limbs. They couple
with the destructive stars that recede
in the sunlight, making a love
they cannot experience with a human.
The wounded and the stars–their children
are the debris that floats around the Syrian
skies. The war will end with an explosion
of starlight, a red dwarf to be peace’s blood,
a blue supergiant to put out the blazes,
a neutron star to suck casualties into white light.
Dark, exploding, collapsing on themselves
and taking clay cities full of weeping children.
Who has seen such malevolent stars?