Norah Brady

black hole sonnet

my love, the astronaut atop the steel comet
flings herself into what could be called but isn’t
death, she thinks, since it is eating her, it should chew
and make of her some sound, instead she is made
a witness, a camera stuck on the stick of time
and what terrible ululation scrapes its throat
all the common logic says she would not hear it
she mucks into its ground instead, stays her steady
melt, and always, almost silence shimmies near her
line dance to the end of the hall and back and back
the weird canopy alight with last night’s Tuesday
wonder if gasping would impress it, decide not.

matter is as matter does, there’s nothing to see
but unremarked coordinates, her grave undone

black hole sonnet

she becomes like a mouth does to eat things that are
beloved, tongue twisted beyond language and stitched
to a syllable, matter that sinks faster than
a boat, a boast is a vessel for containment
she knew not to send herself in one, the riggings
give or ferment a grief that cuts the world in two
dancers know a word for that, doors too when they swing
and miss, she’s a great shot, the fragile aim of her
body into the pit, sirens wail like sisters
crying, tears stall in yearly orbit and never
reach her, don’t you know, nothing will find her again
[pause to imagine endless distances in time]

oh how lonely! to get everyone else’s mail
to watch rivers and rivers sweep time away

---