Photo by Marc Sendra Martorell
Origin of a Star Crash
Riayn Spaero
If mama knew her princess Gertrude
hops into drag races with random men,
she’d deadbolt herself in her room
and down a pint of rum
raisin ice cream to soothe her Sheol,
fold its paper skins in a plastic bag
she’ll nestle under Egyptian threads,
until 4 a.m. when she slips
into the garage to sink her ruin
to the bottom of a bin,
prepping for the likelihood I’m the one
who hauls her garbage to the curb,
and when I’m the one who hauls mom’s garbage,
her secret spills free of fat that anchors
beneath refuse. So I’ll suck back
the tease of his hot, white
Mustang’s whip in my rearview,
its pressure overtaking our distance,
veined tires spinning silver shocks of light
from hubs, the engine’s moan
breaching every sound
choice to stop my Volvo’s peak,
like a wave refracting rays, as I break
past, pressing 65-70-85 miles per hour
in a 40-mile zone; at 90, my nerves
absorb the road’s vibration–
duodenum, jejunum, and ileum speak
hunger in my mother’s Holy tongues,
sternum rebukes my chest,
but I’m calm.
I’m clean.
I’m a king surveying her kingdom
and I see nothing
ahead. No Tiger.
No Jackson or James.
No Paul Walker’s tender mercy
flaying off his zygoma–
witnesses claimed they heard him
scream through the Porsche’s flames fire
fighters wouldn’t put out. These four stars
full of gas we pour into them,
numbered with expectation,
wished upon through teen girls’
dreams and pillow friction,
black holes in the wake
of their destruction. I don’t see
until I’m sloped in my garage,
eyes shut, petrified
hands at eight and four,
dark sky falling to stars.
Riayn Spaero
If mama knew her princess Gertrude
hops into drag races with random men,
she’d deadbolt herself in her room
and down a pint of rum
raisin ice cream to soothe her Sheol,
fold its paper skins in a plastic bag
she’ll nestle under Egyptian threads,
until 4 a.m. when she slips
into the garage to sink her ruin
to the bottom of a bin,
prepping for the likelihood I’m the one
who hauls her garbage to the curb,
and when I’m the one who hauls mom’s garbage,
her secret spills free of fat that anchors
beneath refuse. So I’ll suck back
the tease of his hot, white
Mustang’s whip in my rearview,
its pressure overtaking our distance,
veined tires spinning silver shocks of light
from hubs, the engine’s moan
breaching every sound
choice to stop my Volvo’s peak,
like a wave refracting rays, as I break
past, pressing 65-70-85 miles per hour
in a 40-mile zone; at 90, my nerves
absorb the road’s vibration–
duodenum, jejunum, and ileum speak
hunger in my mother’s Holy tongues,
sternum rebukes my chest,
but I’m calm.
I’m clean.
I’m a king surveying her kingdom
and I see nothing
ahead. No Tiger.
No Jackson or James.
No Paul Walker’s tender mercy
flaying off his zygoma–
witnesses claimed they heard him
scream through the Porsche’s flames fire
fighters wouldn’t put out. These four stars
full of gas we pour into them,
numbered with expectation,
wished upon through teen girls’
dreams and pillow friction,
black holes in the wake
of their destruction. I don’t see
until I’m sloped in my garage,
eyes shut, petrified
hands at eight and four,
dark sky falling to stars.