jfk, terminal 7

Each time a star explodes
the galaxy changes shape,
gas shocking the edges
into misbehaving.
I think of girls
collapsing in on themselves,
bumping in the bathroom, bursting
in the light.

The way the earth spins
a little hollower, the way parents
look at driveways and think
I wonder when she’ll be home.

I’m not saying girls are stars or
people mold to the gaps left over or
the air around you is exploding
into oxygen every minute or
even that you should listen
to astronomers. I just know now
even the biggest stars die, and —

and — the smallest ones steal
the shape of space.