I have tried to stop eating stars;
they make me gassy.
I know that planets should be eaten by the galaxy,
all resting on one’s fork, full of fibre and crunch
and water and magma.
I know that asteroid belts, if eaten whole,
contain all the necessary elements for health,
especially if one swallows
the odd meteor shower too.
And they all say, have the occasional comet.
It does no harm.
But don’t eat the stars.
Don’t eat the stars!
I can’t help it. I see them there
in their sweetmeat box, chosen to show
them off as much as possible, and I long
for that full mouthful of warm comfort.
The red ones, a touch overripe, are the best
- spicy, sometimes bursting on your tongue.
Afterwards I feel warm and energetic.
I can juggle gods after a few suns.
One day I’ll explode with the gluttony
of warmth and light, and spew out the most
voluptuous universe, all light and curves.