I think of how the universe is made of theories—
assumptions and mathematical calculations attempting to shut down the human paradox and close Pandora’s Box,
as if one day we might think up an escape route through the back door of the universe,
throw ourselves into the void of everything and end up a hundred trillion light years away,
just far enough not to hear
when death comes cradling the hands of the collective human race in the darkest parts of day,
I am coming.
At the death of day the mother of the universe curls herself around a hundred million solar systems,
her breath sparking solar winds and blowing a little blue planet several degrees south on its axis;
the Galilean moons stop for just a moment in their orbit and
all sixty-two moons of Saturn laugh in tandem at the irony of existence—
the mother of the universe curls herself around a hundred million solar systems,
even as death passes a hand over her shoulders and
let them live
I am coming.
Silence echoes across the universe and the murmur of celestial bodies fades with the light of a hundred million suns,
all sixty-two of Saturn’s moons have stopped laughing
and the mother of the universe goes softly into sleep
as death strings every sun, moon, and planet around his neck in the absence of noise and grips the fading
strands of time
in his fist,
whispering into the past
for I am coming.