Black Hole: A Poem to my Future Self
Face down on the grass, I think of you. Face down on the grass, hands grasping
at roots and stones, I know you exist. Surrounded here by this invisible
collapsing light, I love imagining you. I will call you Rocío, the sparkling dew,
and I trust you will be here at the end of this erratic grief-filled night.
The point of a blade of grass tickles my cheek, pulling me back from the deeply held dust.
Light can’t escape and yet I feel warmth wrapping me. Distrustful, I wonder:
How something so soft, from something so sharp? How such comfort from such utter dark?
Oh, do you see? Do you see what I do? I receive love and question it.
I am offered glowing caresses and I doubt them, lying face down on these blades.
But, for you, I roll over. I wipe dirt and damp pebbles from my arms.
I need to know you understand what I am speaking, out and through the air:
the earth and the universe hold you in between, the now becomes what was.
Do not expect, as I expect, the blades to slice. Do not believe
you deserve to be burned. Believe instead the truth: the light
belongs to you. If you hear me, I can hold on and wait, wait
as the black hole evaporates, patiently releasing itself
into shining droplets of you.
Amy Snodgrass eats a lot of Dove dark chocolate. She is from St. Louis, Missouri, lives in Costa Rica, and is inspired by her two children. Her work has been published in one sentence poems and was longlisted for the 2022 Fish Publishing Poetry Prize. She is an MFA candidate at the University of New Orleans. She offers accessible-to-all poetry-based classes and individual tutoring through her website: linesofbreath.com