part of a collection of pieces of the Cape York meteorite.
—Museum of Natural History, NY
Not as big as I had imagined,
Especially this one called the Dog.
Maybe four feet long, it is dark brown,
But dumpy and with indentations,
Like the eyes of a potato.
I run my hand over it.
The plaque says when the meteor hit
The pieces were thrown miles apart.
In the next room over,
There are displays of gems we call “precious,”
And people catch their breath,
But I want this huge potato.
I want something
That now comes from earth
As well as space,
That has made it through
The night that is everywhere and always.
There are no questions to ask.
Any epiphanies are your own.
Its curves cast little shadow.
It makes clear
Even the broken can survive.
by Jack Stewart
Jack Stewart was educated at the University of Alabama and Emory and was a Brittain Fellow at Georgia Tech. His first book, No Reason, was published by the Poeima Poetry Series. His work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Poetry, The American Literary Review, Image, Crannóg, and others.
back to Issue 19