Yesterday scientists watched a blast of light from a star as it was eaten by a black hole. A star with the same mass as the sun ripped into thin strips. Such a view is not usually possible because the dust & debris cover up the disruption. But this event was visible in telescopes across the world. At some point a teacher told me the sun was a star. And I thought that was cool. I was proud of myself when I learned how to draw stars. Crayola-ed my 3rd grade sky with them. Added a full moon. I used to get gold stars on my homework. I would peel them off & stick them to the wall next to my twin bed. I collected a constellation. My father told me that we could still see stars that were already dead. And I wish I was able to find all of them in the sky. Identify them confidently. I used to wish on stars. And I know I believed at some point they were angel windows, or alien portals, or maybe the spirits of the dead. I can’t remember when I learned that shooting stars were meteors & that black holes were imploded stars gathering mass as they devoured anything in their galaxy that got too close. Or when I realized I couldn’t see past the point of no return. My student bought a star & named it after me. I have it in a frame somewhere. Today I read how stars keep themselves together, how their internal pressure prevents them from collapsing, & how easily the brightest ones shred–
Victoria Nordlund’s poetry collection Wine-Dark Sea was published by Main Street Rag in 2020. She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize Nominee, whose work has appeared in PANK Magazine, Rust+Moth, Chestnut Review, Pidgeonholes, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. Visit her at VictoriaNordlund.com