M1

by Cynthia Hughes


In the high tech observatory we gaze backward six thousand
years to the Crab Nebula, tendrils unwinding the mystery

of linear space and time. We cast about for dark matter,
suns, galaxies small and whorled as your thumbprint.

In 1054 peasants working their fields discovered the crab:
remnant of a supernova, a day star that shone for two years

as Northmen plundered the English coast and pilgrims
trundled the steps of Santiago de Compostela.

Now, it’s heart collapsed, the crab appears a spectral body
on a computer screen, veins blood red and blue pulsing

gamma rays through the fog of elements. We save the images
in a folder and I step outside for some air. There above the trees

the moon is rising, full and unfiltered, dispatched
from the vault of heaven to the pupil in the eye of a woman

standing in the grass. I raise my arms, and I want to hold
onto the edge of the earth. And dear God, I want to let go.

 

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Cynthia Hughes writes poetry and music from her home in Southern Vermont, where she is a primary school librarian and teacher. Her poems have been published in several literary journals in the U.S. and have received recognition from poetry awards in the U.S., Ireland and Canada. She is working on her MFA and a first collection of poems.

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A Summer Killing