Last night the sky exploded, 
and I’m the only one who knows.

I heard it from my bedroom 
and peeled the curtains
back to watch it tear in two,
an open wound, spilling out
it’s insides like the glowing
smear of night nectar syrup
lightening bugs leave behind
on windshields caught in their path.

I threw fallen apples from the orchard
at this great blackhole until my arms were tired,
I collected the parts that fell to Earth
in Mason jars, placing them on shelves
in my cellar next to the canned peaches and plums.

By morning, the stars had stitched
everything back together, as it was
and had always been.

I spread that heaven honey on my
toast for breakfast and watched
my body become a planetarium.