of men naming stars as gifts to loved ones

an advisory to women:

at night when we look to the stars,–– not the planets mind you,

whose faces are false faces, but the stars, each star

appears to be not substantially larger than the others.

they all possess much the same sweltering circumstance, pathology,

physics, and fatal chemistry, when measured against our own star,

that yellow dwarf which allows us our puny human lifetimes.

of course I’m excluding the actual size differentials of stars,

distances, densities, and varying luminosities here, but this is the poem

I'm presenting to you. see?

so when hubby or boyfriend or lover or uncle or stalker, hands you

on your special day, a "Certificate of Authenticity" claiming that

a particular star on a stupid celestial map which looks to be scribbled

by the hand of Donald J. Trump, which has your name designated to it,––

knock his ridiculous, lyin'-ass, bullshitting, cheap-ass motherfuckin' block off!