I’m not the sun or the moon, though
I dream of being centered. I’m not

an asteroid, powerful enough to decimate
life. Nor am I a galaxy, a system,

a supernova, white dwarf, red
giant, or other creature bending

space to its will. I’m not the star.
I’m no bigger than a mushroom

shaped like a potato. I’m dense.
Don’t mistake me, I’m still celestial,

made from spacedust and magma.
I’m not alone. We travel in packs,

roaming, hungry. And when we reach
an atmosphere, we will burn

through any night sky, catch
all life’s eye. There’ll be no sun,

no moon, no constellation,
only us. Only me. We will burn

like a great signal fire screaming,
“We are here. We are here.”

METEOR by Michael VanCalbergh

Photo used under CC.


About Author


Michael VanCalbergh received his MFA from Rutgers-Newark and now survives in Normal, IL. When not having spells cast on him by his five year old, he is one half of the comedy etymology podcast Words for Dinner. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart and has appeared in The Collagist, Post No Ills, Apex Magazine, Big Muddy, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, Gingerbread House, and others.

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