by A. Anupama
Carbon waits in air
to melt in dark’s fire,
sliced by cosmic radiation
in the daylit sky.
Beryl, this sky tastes like rain,
lavender and lime.
Drops of the first boiling dew.
Freeze a piece of the sun,
it becomes meteorite, and not sugar.
Light elements swallowed into ache of crystals
in earth’s boiling interior yield stems of fluted emerald,
tourmaline dusk, and cryptic lithium—
magma’s last dark blooms.
But beryllium has trilled herself before, in stars.
Red giants spit carbon only after
the split second isotope of her skirt.
Meteorite is grandfather to all rocks
except her, daughter of space rain
and rage of dying stars.
Magnesium set in a fine ring of nitrogen,
is chlorophyll, O emerald gem of earth—
and splits water into her sisters, air and fire.
and blooms with sugar.