Whenever I see we are
one
of millions of galaxies,
I feel like a dot of a dot of a dot.
No feelings or memories in galaxies.
No galaxy married the most beautiful other dot in the world,
birthed three other dots with that dot,
stood looking out at its own raging, blue ocean,
sad that one dot spoke terrible things about another dot,
voted for one dot over another,
wondered why one dot only ate vegetables, another meat.
Or was horrified when a dot crashed his car into another dot,
gazed at the big white dots in the black sky,
amazed as dots created music, paintings,
poems, novels, sculptures,
scorned a dot of a different color,
warmed to a dot rescuing a dog,
felt the distant dot of a red, pulsing sun.
Or marveled as a dot explored an unknown sunset-soaked vista,
spied one dot stealing from another,
shot a basketball through a dot on a pole,
cheered when a dot carried a picket sign,
exclaimed when a dot danced with lotto winnings from dots on a ticket,
cried as one dot adulterized a dot’s dot.
Or scaled the dot of a mountain,
lauded a dot for the sonnet she wrote,
screamed as a drunken dot jumped off a bridge,
contemplated dots supplicating, genuflecting, meditating,
surveyed a placid, green lake with an egret dot,
loved a dot petting a swan, another petting a bull.
Or dropped bombs on other dots.
Or looked up, realized
had one of those dots
left her other dots far too early
we would look up at those other galaxies
and know that dot
was somewhere out there.
Originally published in The Corvus Review