Star in the Toaster

The memory of a star chooses to dwell in an old toaster,
a steel shell that breathes silently through the hours.
Between rusty slots is born the first breath of a galaxy,
and the kitchen becomes a map of weightless lights.
Open the slot and the bread is tinged with stars; warm bread and iron’s gleam.
The star tells of stellar tracks, slow orbits between two holes,
and in the heat melts a nebula of butter and jam,
every slice is a planet that rotates on the tongue.
When the bread bids farewell, the memory remains a small galaxy in the kitchen.
The toaster stays open to the breath of the sky, between steam and crust,
and the star remains, for us, to tell that light
can travel for centuries within a domestic kitchen.