When Two Stars Die by A. J. Huffman
We built our moon by hand, out of paper
napkins and twisted match sticks, the cheapest
kindling we could scrape from kitchen drawers.
Then we hung it from a string, from a low-hanging branch,
from a dying tree beyond the barn, and watched
night after night, comparing it to God’s.
Something of ours just never seemed right. The light or the angle
of our eyes, and that last night, I was tired, and
you were angry, and we were both insignificant as always,
staring at our failure swinging in the wind. You swung
out with your fist, and I watched your fire connect,
a spark you later swore came from your watch,
the metal acting like flint. Something caught, grew,
and we sat back, put our feet up, and finally got to see
our tiny world evaporate in a brilliant ball of smoke and flame.