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.