This Body is a Body Collapsing by b: william bearhart

I did not panic when I drove my truck into a ditch of trees.

            Snap of birch, crack of branch,

there is no sound for this in space.

            Maybe I was too drunk        or too alone
                                                               too much stardust
nostalgic for everything

that was nothing
                                before that big bang thing.

I’m billions of years
            in the driver’s seat of my Chevy Blazer,

                                                             packed full of galaxies

colliding,                        I’m everything           moving so slow.

Stars in my mouth and hair, in my shoes and air.
                                      I’m so sparkle and stumble
                                                 running down the highway at 4 a.m.,
truck                 ditched on a side road          billows of smoke,

this explosion,
                                      all asteroids and comet tails,
I orbit death.

Six years earlier: my wrists turn solar systems,

            planets falter and separate,

alone                                       and                                adrift

and two years earlier, a swallowed bottle of nebulae,
            collapsed supernovas.

It never ends.

A head of black holes sucks light out of everything.
b: william bearhart is a direct descendent of the St Croix Chippewa of Wisconsin and an MFA candidate in the Lo Rez program at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico. His work can be found in places like Big Bell, inter|rupture, and PANK.