Black Hole-- A poem

I wanted to talk about mother,

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.