It's the night of the day you were born
91 years ago,
no time at all in our nebula.
Look up: it's still in charge,
master of our ceremonies, hurling
a handful of rocks from Perseus,
rough-cut diamonds.
Voilà, here is my gift,
call it God's tears or laughter.

Was it on such an August night
you lay with the Air Corps pilot
on an old quilt your landlady gave
her newly wedded guests, felt
Georgia's swelter cool a few degrees
while he held you tenderly, unsmiling
knowing what wars can do,

and did he say
"I don't want you to be alone,"
hoping a son would care for you.
Did your lips meet then, sealing his intent,
bringing me nine months later,
a tiny star, into a new galaxy?