Danielle Lea Buchanan | 25
Danielle Lea Buchanan
Ursa Major's Levitation Toward Enlightenment
The Aztec thought ovary a sun god and named her Mama Huitzilopochtli. Seven’ish p.m. induces the sun into labor. Huitzilopochtli breaks water that ripples contractions in mauve, orange, and ochre. By ten’ish, in epidemics above, constellations of children, of aborted babies show. There are bazillions of stars, of phosphorescent screams. A nano second goes and gazillions more orphans shine all margarine bright. The sky is a concaved hollow hill actually, its center rising infinitely. An inside bottom curves up into what’s seen. Lovers love watching cosmological loss (the abandoned in search of … ) via telescope in oooh’s, ahhh’s. Humanity can’t adopt light so attribute bastard children a name: Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major.
Ursa Major was especially special, a particularly introspective sheen that pondered her roots of light. The moon is just a nanny and wasn’t Ursa Major’s biological father. After 872 billion years, Ursa’s fire became arthritic, her innards sooting. She was running out of hydrogen so the time was now. To find her mother, Mama Huitzilopochtli, that ancient celestial absence. At this quest’s beginning, Ursa Major had a psychosomatic meltdown. Silver scopes prodded her with thousands of tiny teaspoons. To stars satellites are something like wishes, just nuisances of boiling static and electrical froth. Tiny teaspoons scooped Ursa’s goop (the warm yellow of an underdone egg hard-boiled), and gave it to someone else to give to another to put somewhere for an other to look at on Earth sometime. Someone somewhere called Ursa Major’s psychosomatic meltdown a supernova. Trillions of teaspoons returned. They scooped Ursa into half of herself, while telling her what she felt, in fact, was not what she felt. They