Ms. Fingerstars

Stars were just the opening act.

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She plucked stars out of space

to paint with her fingernails.

Laughing, she called it theft;

I called it finesse (and meant it).

Not borrowed — extracted.

Not for light — effect.

Science traced voids in the sky,

published papers, ran simulations.

Little did they guess:

the apertures you cut in hearts

make constellations feel provincial.

I called it polish.

She called it evidence.

A galaxy compressed into a gesture…

a flick of the wrist,

a stranger’s admiration, twice;

she enjoyed the telling more than the moment.

I burned.

She wore the burn like mischief.

I called her Daemon…

half joke, half invocation.

She smiled, practiced, unafraid.

(I loved it.)

Stars were her opening act.

Now she’s sampling black holes.

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— UpsilonA