2:00 a.m. and I am Thinking About the Black Hole from Interstellar

by Matthew J. Andrews


and the strange way it toys with light,
letting it flow around its edges the way water
sharpens at the rim of a whirlpool,
wearing it like a robe at a coronation
before taking it into its depths and consuming
it in the mouth from which there is no exit.
My racing heart is the drumbeat of lust,
the soundtrack of a desire to be swallowed,
to be taken inside that dark conformity.
I see me in orbit, feeling that black gravity
stretch every second of night into hours,
reaching out a finger to that closed eye
and praying like hell it reaches back.


Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer who lives in Modesto, California. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Orange Blossom Review, Funicular Magazine, Red Rock Review, ONE ART, Sojourners, Amethyst Review, Kissing Dynamite, and Deep Wild Journal, among others. He can be contacted at matthewjandrews.com.



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