Explosions

By Jessica Garcia-Tejeda

Stars are the dandruff of universes.
When a universe gently rubs one of its vast hands across its scalp,
These luminous particles fall free.
A star is the follicle to a strand of hair,
That strand stretches millions of light-years until it meets our eyes as light.
We’re too small,
Too petite,
To see it as hair; light suffices,
Gives a simple name to the phenomenon,
For the awed human mind.
Stars, in their own bright way,
Grow longer and are cut,
Dye themselves different colors,
And eventually sport salt and pepper styles.
Eventually,
Though,
Stars explode in tremendous forces.
They collapse.
Hair isn’t composed of flammable gas, but
Somewhere,
Somehow,
I know that it too explodes.