Eighth Grade Science (poem)

Mr. Gola squinted,
hands resting on a scarred school desk
and he preached from our book of earth science
like all that matter mattered
like we cared, or listened, or intended
to finish those five homework problems without peeking at solid answers hiding behind the appendix.

"We're made of stardust, exploded galaxies,
wrinkled pieces of space-time fabric,
lost fragments from wormholes, or Mars, or Moses
so read chapter six,
okay?"

Okay, I thought, and I opened that book
for the first time though the year was half-mast
and my grades were caught in some deep pitch dimension
and I hated science
except for the blonde boy with constellation freckles
two seats east in my secret Orion's Belt.

The stars burst, I read, and gas and invisible dust
spread and collect, spread and collect,
make baby stars, planets, protozoa, alligators, aunts and uncles,
hide in percolated coffee and my mother's purse.

I saw those dead stars gun shatter spit
dust my way, into the classroom;
dead pieces of planet and black nebula that swept
into my lungs, Mr. Gola's lungs, that freckle boy's lungs,
until we exhaled all that restless science together.