Above and below
permeating all
the warp core is Om
moves molecules, silent
or deafening, it could be
the sound of hearing, space
breathing.

We see the sisters as we go.
There are hundreds
too many to count
of indigo and hot suns,
giants nearing death.
Dust is their veil
somewhere plasma and madder
chromium diffused
tongues of tiny phthalo,
reflection nebulae, the guide says,
but hundreds more than seven
daughters of Atlas and Pleione.

Orion chases them with his dogs.
His sword is not made of stars
but a hurricane of gas
supersonic bullets, protoplanets
dwarves. M42 nebula,
the drone says. Rigel is too
giant too brilliant for us to see
anything but light, not even
blue. What element we
wondered must a star fuse
to shine such a shade?

Toward the Bull, Orion's prey
we glide to find a Crab, fossil
remains of an implosion like
ripples on a scarlet lake. We must
not linger too close to its heart-
a ghost there spins thirty times each
second, throwing pulses of light,
not always visible transmissions. Gravity,
our hologuide explains, warps
time as well as space and we
have a schedule to keep.

We clear the arm of Milky
Way at last and pause to look
back. The universe is an ocean
it seems full of whirlpools and eddies,
bioluminescent monsters.
Our pilot zigzags through
the water avoiding the holes
the devouring ones. What happens
when space is so dense it curves
360° times infinity?
What of Om then?

© 2012, Amy Hart.