1. Nothing

At a certain density anything

becomes a black hole. Lighthouse. Line. Schwarzschild

radius of a mother. Which is to

say black hole and lighthouse are selfsame, down

to the matter of measurement, and the

arrangement of particles that renders

me daughter is lineage heavier

than singularity. Let’s say black holes

are messengers, let’s say the gap between

ancestor and inheritor is the

broken line forcing a poem to hang

on the possibility of all things

in vibrating superposition, un-

til collapsing under the weight of sight.

  1. Nowhere

The problem with a point of no return

is teleological in nature.

One must know the spectrum of future space

-time to determine when light can only

pass inward, or where too much is enough.

A mother says “sorry, what did you say?”

and a daughter, out of time, replies (sucked 

into a…)–knowing a black hole is a

lighthouse is a daughter is that with an

empty (bagel) space at its centre, and

were a mother to send a daughter past

an event horizon, she would never

appear to cross it. Floating in free fall,

the last courier runs from the old world.

  1. At Some Point

In the telescope glints a galaxy

four point six billion years past (extinct), so

it stands to reason some future prophet

–disappointed, like all daughters, by all

politics of her nation–peers down to

watch us now through her great eye, then, growing

bored, dictates to her Google Doc (forgive

my lack of imagination) that the

temperature of this earth’s core and its

largest star were remarkably close, at

five thousand-two hundred and five thousand-

seven hundred and seventy-eight–give

or take world’s end–degrees Celsius, so

“that must have meant something,” she says. “It must.”