We are made of star stuff. All of us.
We emerged (squirming, I expect) from the dust of comet tails.
The hydrogen in our arms could be,
in another life, Proxima Centauri
or our own Sun.
We are star stuff, but soft and dithering.
My family, for example, produced a clutch of hopeless drunks.
Locals claimed my uncle what’s-his-face
had his ass permanently glued to a barstool.
Me? I was afraid of the wind.
The wind, which is nothing.
There are times when I am convinced
a rogue asteroid is streaking toward me.
Not you. Me.
The asteroid is shiny and blue-black and is my first cousin.
It has been given a number instead of a name.
I made a strong point of never buying my uncle beers
and I used the word “gravity” as often as possible when talking to him.
For his part, my uncle called attractive young women birds.
Our conversations
never really went anywhere important.
—Mitchell
Hegman
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