Gravities of Dreaming Stone

By Subhangi Maity

Nebulas cough marbles,  

spit pearls into the dark,  

and call them stars.  

Stars, ancient lungs,  

breathe slow fire  

until planets gather at their feet.  

Ash becomes orbit,  

heat becomes cradle.  

Planets hum lullabies  

to the cold,  

and hold satellites’ hands  

as if they were children  

made of mirrors and antennae.  

The moons listen.  

The moons always listen.  

A comet forgets its name mid-flight.  

Black holes blink like shy gods.  

And somewhere,  

on a speck's skin,  

life opens one curious eye  

and names it all  

home. 

By Subhangi Maity