Stonehenge marked us early. 
Look carefully on the walls 
at Lascaux and we are there, 
an ochre star falling on 
the heads of aurochs. 

Pliny the Younger saw the fury 
of our eruption, shook dark tears 
from his tunic, saved his mother 
while his uncle found fortune 
does not always favor the brave. 

Copernicus did not take us 
seriously, though we shimmered 
of the non-permanence of 
Earthly things. 

Tycho thought us 
a new star in vain Cassiopeia’s 
breast. The Wanli Emperor’s 
Grand Secretary warned of 
evil omens in the Black Tortoise. 

To see us better, Galileo 
refined the telescope, 
but mistook us for a union 
of the god of the north wind 
and the goddess of the dawn. 

If you spin the dial 
at the Very Large Array 
you can hear us skip and crackle 
across the frequencies like Wolfman Jack 
broadcasting from the moon. 

James Webb simmers 
with infrared traces 
of ancient orgasms, 
but cannot feel 

our first embrace, nor predict 
the last. We are fever, we are 
white hot, we are fire in the night. 
We peep through your window, 
twinkle across the union of body with body, 
welcome the spawning of a new universe. 

Bio: Robert L. Dean, Jr.