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!
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