Dark Impactor
Ben Gunsberg
Under normal conditions our solar
system binds, but a string of holes
suggests dense shells pierced
the Milky Way. Light refuses to mark
〇
these scars so new to telescopes
and physicists. They haven’t yet
been named by lyricists nor
compared to wailing mouths.
〇
One reminds me of a wreath
where buds refuse to grow. Life
refuses to swell like steam from
its warm bowl. A seam between
〇
each hole reminds me of caution
tape, like the hem of a dress
extracted from glass (I cannot
describe the aftermath). What happens
〇
when bodies collide in space? How
few hide in a narrow hallway?
How many in a closet? If “A” lies
outside and “B” lies on the floor,
〇
how many targets? The answer
key waits on the final page,
where we learn what happens
to our young, our heavens.
