Wednesday, January 15, 2020

The universe is littered with them, strange discoveries
named like the bridges they are, suspended by braids

of integrals. The integrity of a relationship
can be measured, too. Most arc toward disintegration.

When I was twelve, my mother bought me a book
about astronomy because, as she flexed the spine open,

the symbols she couldn’t understand looked like music
I should learn. Accelerating past the speed of light

leads to imaginary time. In an imagined time,
she cut herself loose from suffering and tumbled

down a hole dark enough to be called heaven.
The heavens’ measurements are incomplete;

all scientists married to their work make widows.
In an imagined time, I never entangled myself

in an understanding of gravity as symbol
for her grief, a force I struggle to escape from.

No matter how fast I travel, light approaches
at a constant speed—the same with which it leaves.














Wednesday, January 15, 2020