When we die, do we
go back, small cell, atom
slit by light. It takes up
space, an ocean, a planet, a
god. Too large to understand
the scale, although we accept
the concept. Constellations,
tongues of vibration. Unlearnable
logic between us. Our sameness, our
strangeness, lows deep and seismic.
A language translated. Thin whistle.
If we could speak it, we would
crumble. Above us,
a black and wet sheet is washing
forever. Clockless expanse, science
in darkness, the moon’s clean conduction
of time. Satellites, submarines, sink
and climb, and can’t find what’s there, and
what’s there? Listen
to me, carefully. One day
you’ll ask the right question,
and that’s when you’ll see it.
Look! That’s when
I’ll tell you—
Wait—
Genna Gardini is a writer, theatre-maker, and educator. Her poetry has been published widely, most recently in Prairie Schooner, The Amsterdam Review, and New Contrast. You can see more about her work at www.gennagardini.com.