Lately I’ve been rattling like
pennies when I walk,
and turns out, all the black holes
lead to me. Yeah—
every one. Right now I’m holding
somebody’s missing mug,
smeared with leftover
sunrise and the silence
after I told them about all these
mornings of cast coins,
and dropped stopwatches,
and hair. Every week
in the clinic, nurses pull
the lost causes from my chest
hand over hand like magician’s rope.
I drive home and already,
new houses and planets
slip onto the seat—
when I first leaked nebulas
into the bathroom sink
I thought I was giving birth.
But the ultrasound said
there was no life inside me,
just a tangle of haberdashery and cancer.
I laminate the hole
with a plastic bag
to keep the universe in check.
Next week the clinic will
pull everything out of me
again, and promise
one day I will no longer be so hungry.