A Theorized Form of Matter

There's a monster in the sun,
in the spaces between breath and star-rise.
Children whisper of the talons pushing tides.
The current is the same no matter
how deep the whirlpool goes.
They skip rope to the rhyme
of push and pull.

Mothers warn each other of its sigils: the heavy
smell of galaxies necrotic.
Try to tell their hearts that
there is no beast here.

That light is strong enough to pierce
through its scales and serpentine coils.

But it's here with teeth in our backs, the tearing
spine holding us skyward.