the death of a star.
it all happens
in my iris.
to be seen
by the universe—
as if the dark itself
leaned closer, curious,
and made of me
a small opening
through which the light
could enter and ask
its quiet questions.
what is it to bloom,
to burn,
to vanish so completely
and still be held
here,
in this brief wet mirror
of a living thing
that looks back
and does not turn away.