by Rachelle Larsen
The universe is pregnant, stretch marks
wrenching scars between stars
clinging against the dark
energy ripping galaxy from galaxy,
till we see our Milky spill only
against black skin. We are a lonely
freckle, our speckled night
sacrificed to the birthright
of our mother’s fetus. Why
must the clustered lusters fade?
Flecks of spiraled lint straying
so far that colors dim to red, then radio waves,
then gone. The nothing can travel faster
than the speed of light. The nothing is vaster
than the 5% of our mother that we can see.
The nothing is the womb housing the baby.
What will be born of this dilating death?