how she can't see anymore, of nurses
who bruise her arms and legs
when they bathe her. You fold your paper
butter rye toast while you read
Maureen Dowd, Thomas Friedman.
I read your horoscope out loud.
You're talking about quasars, pulsars
or some goddamn thing while I remember
the zoo when we were small, how we walked
for hours in heat while I squinted
through thick lenses to see tiny animals,
pictures on wooden signs,
Look, there it is you would say
I would search logs, long grass
but nothing moved.
Even now I cannot see.
I told you mom was proud of your prize,
your discovery, black holes
gravity swallows light
I asked how how we could know about something
we can't see, without looking up
you answer by observing its effect on things around it.
I told you mom was forgetting our names
but you do not hear
at home with your numbers
geometric proof
that the universe will continue to expand
until one day collapses on itself.
