What Black Holes are Made of

The lonely universe attracted by a beauty/pulls another universe into
bed,/knowing what black holes are made for.

—Stanley Moss

Each night, Chopin, his buggy circling
the cemetery Père Lachaise, feels the pull
of his yet un-dug grave,
its lonely depths calling to him, wooing
with that double hook: inevitability, fear.

Each time his horses’ feet clatter
ever closer on the cobbles, the deep
spiral tightens, just a bit, feeding him
line after line, then quicker and
quicker until the barb bites home and
the invisible pole reels him in, flying out
of his element: only a few far-flung
shimmering scales escape that bottomless creel,
solitary notes shed from the tight
musical staff thrown back like
minnows, small black dots left to play,
to improvise quietly amid the stars.

 
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Kathleen A. Dale's works include her 2019 memoir—Offerings: The Decluttering of a Life— in addition to one full-length book of poetry and three chapbooks. The recipients of numerous awards, her poems have appeared in over thirty journals.