My History with Stars, Aly Pierce

“My History with Stars”

By Aly Pierce


When I was a baby, my mom

spoon-fed me stars instead of peas.

There’s a picture of me in my high chair

with light dripping in globs off my chin,

the tray a shimmering mess.


By first grade, I had graduated from hydrogen

to chicken nuggets but now I had nebulas blooming

in my belly. I rocketed around my class room,

the shine bubbling out of my eyes.


I didn’t know for a long time, but I felt them

like fingers reaching out from my body

to grip the world and wrench it towards me.

I felt the energy clamoring against the inside of my skin.


In middle school, my stars started to ricochet

from my arms to my legs, trying to become one

or forming a constellation, I don’t know,

but they knocked me off balance all the time

and once, one got stuck in my heart

like an aching wad of gum.


In college, I started unconsciously wearing

a lot of red. I didn’t realize that meant

I was choking until it was too late.


I was in bed for three days, sweating.

A super nova inside a body is about as outwardly

significant as one in the sky. Maybe you see it.

Maybe you were looking the wrong way.


The average person is made up

of so many black holes. The pupils,

the esophagus, the closed fist.

So what if I have one more in my gut?

I eat a little more than others,

I weigh a little more. My yawns

last longer, and I can stave off sunrise

for about six minutes.