Easy to touch stars when they glow in the dark on your bedroom ceiling, the green a sickening cast. you could count stars but you couldn’t capture them. you could name them but you couldn’t keep them. who would let you have them? when you flew under them you could not taste them in the cold. after years of being on the wrong side of the sky you crept up at night and offered yourself from a rooftop and reached up jumped into the night’s lace expecting some bright god impressed to lift you out of the twisted air into the dark dark blue. they say the suicide usually dies of a heart attack before he ever reaches ground that there is a moment of redemption in mid-air that the jumper waves and shakes his body trying to stop stop stop did you see stars when you landed? were you burning when you fell? . . . did all of you know the moment God took you back? did you say a prayer or curse the dark? did you relax and surrender or struggle against the explosion the water the earth? (the ground now soft for lack of your steps) and do you have any words for us the ones who clean out storage rooms and sell guitars the ones who make statements to the press and tell everyone we’re doing fine now and please make a donation in your name? To The Boy Who Exploded, To The Boy Who Drowned, To The Boy Who Fell From Stars by Nicole Blackman

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