 | Adam Love is an emerging writer from Salt Lake City. His work has appeared or is upcoming in Numero Cinq, The Main Street Rag, Sugar House Review, Conte, MiPoesias, and others. He’s the author of Another Small Fire, a chapbook of poetry. He was nominated for a 2013 Pushcart Prize. He holds and MFA from Vermont College. Below is the poem "Play Crack the Sky" as well as his reading at City Art. Enjoy and stay ugly! - Christopher |
| Play Crack the Sky A cosmonaut once told me that every exploding star has a name it never knew. It labels itself and speaks no language, or maybe it speaks many languages that nothing but it, the star, can understand. Until there is an instance in both space and time, when the star decides to explode into day, cool indefinitely into night. When he told me this, I was puzzled and asked “How can that be?” He chuckled and said, “Once I went to a black hole, crossed the never-returning boundary into my own nothingness—forever leaping into that cosmic bay, my existence stretching through each layer of the universe’s sunken mountains. But now I am here, and you should know that I am both here and not here. That I both returned and never left.” Suddenly, I’m five again, climbing my honey tree, chewing Starbursts, reaching for the distant gold hands of maple leaves, searching the ground for signs of my father, staring back up at the wild blue, late evening empire. Allowing clouds to unlock the cornerstone of my eye. If I could find the cosmonaut, I’d tell him that I am the one who haunts his dreams of mountains sunk below the sea. That every star I become will explode, collect in my bloodstream, and flood my bones like potholes after rain has play-cracked the sky. |
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