Suzanne O'Connell | Poet

A Hiccup In Time

I heard it on the radio yesterday.

Scientists have discovered a hole in time

filled with nature’s hair and empty bottles.

I tried to follow along.

I imagined walking down a smooth street

and tripping on a lip of concrete–

(the scientists call this lip the event horizon).

Beneath this lip,

a black-mouthed sinkhole opens up–

blacker than the death of a dog.

The hole is infinite but the size of a pin-prick_

expansive enough to contain a thousand black suns.

On the other side of the hole,

the sidewalk smooths out again.

Everything that falls into this hole disappears

into its mysterious depth:

baby shoes,

love letters,

arguments,

fold in on themselves–

scramble,

and become random particles

never to re-emerge.

 

The story made me feel very small.

Smaller than when I look up at the moon.

I realize I am a mere adhesion

on a thin tissue of time.

I am a postage stamp

on the missing envelope.

I am a floater,

a small pair of wings that forgot how to fly.

I am a cluster of pink buds falling,

into a gap of my humility.

 

 

The Manhattanville Review, September, 2015

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