Of moles and stars

You lie beside me, breathing softly in your sleep.
I trace the patterns there,
Small brown moles on your back,
Sprinkled by vagaries of genes
And little errors in your cells.
I think of constellations,
A map of another sky,
Seen from another world,
Another star.

Scientists say that all elements,
After hydrogen,
Were made in ageing stars,
Each atom hammered into form
On the anvils of supernovas
And scattered on the solar winds,
Condensing in icy minerals
In nebulae that became,
In the immensity of time,
Our Earth, Ourselves.

I wonder if these constellations are a memory,
A distant history maybe,
Of your origin, a map of
The star that made you.

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