The Games We Play with Gods – A poem.

This is the beginning, in which
we see ourselves revealed—
shallow husks of skin that drift
through the blackest ocean,
pricked by the needles of gods.
Light bleeds through, tiny slivers
remind us of magic, and we gasp at shapes,
name them after dragons,
twins, and the mundane we know.

This is the beginning, in which
heaven enthralls us—
forget about husbands and wives,
waste away chasing stars.

Old eyes fail, and through
shaped and polished glass
we throw ourselves into the sky—
feel the drift and pull of planets
pass so close our fingers brush them.
Gods remain out of grasping hands,
still we try to climb into heaven.
Chasing prey we’ve never seen.

In time we puncture the black—
lights from our own needles.
Flames as long as rivers
smear the sky and blind us—
drifting in the dark, we are enveloped
in nothing.


Starfighter – A poem.

The telescope rests now,
its giant eye watching the stars.
The boy sleeps, his ceiling glows
with painted constellations.
Stars arrange themselves—
a story he refuses to read.
He finds a one-eyed dog, a unicorn that lost
its horn, a motherless boy.

When stars peek, like tiny
suns, he goes up to his room to watch.
His father’s voice quivers
through the carpet, punctuated
by clinking glass. He stares through
a telescope pretending
there are other worlds.

A constellation of tumbling stars,
like hair, framing blue eyes
that see how tough nights are.
When he screams
his father doesn’t come.
Sweated blankets cocoon him.
Starlight slips through the window,
almost kneels next to him,
and burns the terrors away.

His face eases into sleep.
The starlight fades, catches on
the photo of his mother,
and is gone.


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