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POETRY

Matter and Void

Susan B. A. Somers-Willett


On the subject of endings: the world gives signs
of its tiny goodbyes. My pinhole camera captures
a bald shrub and the crater in the grass where
the dog has napped. Across the yard, the roughneck
delivery man shuts his empty truck with a little bang.
He makes a radio call as he leaves in which I imagine
he says either I’ve got four claims of damage or Honey, I love you,
but I can’t anymore.
Birds are dropping out of the trees
from thirst; all summer I scoop up their needle-boned
evidence with a spade. Not even light can escape
such hollowing, this huge mass in a small space.
Even the Milky Way with its open arms
is said to have a black hole at its heart.









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