Letter

To the Black Hole: I’m afraid I don’t know who else to write to. The fire is brightest where the sun holds its hands. Where I was born is a long way from here. I’ll never get back there. A baritone voice booms in a language I don’t speak. Is home everywhere. It cannot be. It’s a mass or a revel of forest dwellers worshipping death. I’m not prejudiced. I sing along. Help me. The chorus gets louder and the trees tremble, drop their leaves, pull up their roots, and run like deer. I run with them. I fall in quicksand. I sink. I’m being pulled in. When only my head is above the murk I begin to see I never did exist. It was a twist, my brain, the revolt of neurons. All the same help me. Help me. Nothing else is.