Entropy

We argued back and forth for days
over who could get the credit
for creation.

It was her idea to make the stars shine
but it was my idea to give them seven points.
She thought that burning gas would be the best
fuel to feed the fire,
but I amended this, insisting that the stars
consume themselves infernally
and eternally
or at least until they die.

She wanted to make them immortal.
I thought that was cruel.

We agreed on placing them in a grid formation,
a giant checkerboard hatched across the sky.
With rulers and double sided tape
we pressed the white dots onto the navy tarp,
simple, mathematical,
a framework for the earth.

But when we splayed the tarp over our heads,
waved it out like a beach towel,
the stars slid and fell
shooting off in a thousand different directions.

Powerless, I yelled and shook my fists at the dark.
She took my arm and pulled me down to sit
beside her on the hill. Pointing up at the stars,
random, disheveled,
she saw a dog, with a least two too many heads,
a throne, upright and captive,
a bull lowering its horns to the horizon.

“Look at what you’ve done,” she whispered in my ear,
her cheek touching mine.

I still didn’t see anything more than spilt milk
but I squeezed her hand
and put my head in her lap.