I hear the universe is dying
and its death is easy to measure
like my grandmother’s hairbrush
against my young hand. Already
our stars are slowing down
in their middle age. Their light
taking longer to reach my window. 
When she was alive, I would
run ahead of my grandmother
from the car and up the stairs
to apartments higher than hers
and hide. And listen to her pretend
to wonder where I was. For me
energy was belief. That I’d never
drag my legs around the kitchen
counter or hunch from a brittle
spine over the mixer filled with
pound cake batter for a child
who laughs at my denture routine. 
I’ve known for a while now
that both our bodies were forged
from stardust, but I wish it occurred
to me as I brushed her hair
for the last time that the power
spinning its growth would burn
until it wouldn’t.