Ah!  Ain’t love grand? Without the flame of love and its inevitable ash–what would life be like?  Poet Jesse Morgan asks: “What is this thing called loved…?” The answer my friend is in the stars…
Jesse Morgan is a literary enthusiast and amateur poet. He received his undergraduate degree in political science from Brown University in 2010. He currently lives in Stow, Massachusetts.

Winter Solstice Visitation

In the fiery throat of a fading star

(Which dies in silence, on the deaf ears of

The dead…) the beloved cling. They hang in

A skeletons’ embrace, aflame. The tongues

all ‘round them sing.

On such starry days and nights he is full

Of glory. She (not less, not more) is full….

And so: the bones exhumed burn together,

Aglow, in the heart of a dying star.

The beloved blush is rebirth. (Language

Overflowing fails this love-flush.)

Hot hearts, bone, and flesh

burn as one.

And how are we, the less full, any more?

I too possess a full set of burning

Bones. I too will die by white tongues in the

Immaculate flash of beginnings and

pure ends.

I too am pure energy,

Energy poured

In and out of bones;

Energy born

Within and without

Your burning skeleton.

– Jesse Morgan

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