You will be four minutes from home
when you are cornered by an officer
who will tell you of a robbery, forty
minutes ago in the area. You fit
the description of a man? – You’ll laugh.
Thirteen, you’ll tell him: you’re thirteen.
You’ll be patted on the shoulder, then, by another fed
whose face takes you back to Gloucester Primary School,
a Wednesday assembly about being little stars.
This same officer had an horizon in the east
of his smile when he told your class that
you were all supernovas,
the biggest and brightest stars.
You will show the warmth of your teeth
praying he remembers the heat of your supernova;
he will see you powerless – plump.
You will watch the two men cast lots for your organs.
Don’t you remember me? you will ask.
You gave a talk at my primary school.
While fear condenses on your lips,
you will remember that Wednesday, after the assembly,
your teacher speaking more about supernovas:
how they are, in fact, dying stars
on the verge of becoming black holes.