Bio Note: I have published several books--both fiction and poetry. I teach for a living, which has become much more difficult these days. Send cookies. You can find me at www.laurelpeterson.com, or on Facebook or Twitter; drop by and say hi--I need the company.
INFINITE EVE I. One birth spawned a billion like one star in a net of pearls around a galaxy’s dark throat, spinning in limitless expansion, and this, only one manifestation of the multiverse, our universe a newly spawned bubble in an infinite vibrating string. II. Eve grounds us as myth, as reality, mother of the clay jar, poetry, war. She is the long birthing scream that echoes in the vastness between stars and is answered by mothers on other worlds. III. Only Eve pins the dark in time, even as it slips into momentlessness where you say you want to live. The universe is a lung, expanding as we breathe out our loneliness.
As the Universe Spins Apart
whorls of galaxies so bright block the darkness beyond, the darkness so far from us its light hasn’t yet reached us, as if we were some kind of destination, something important, central, like the Port Authority or LAX. Because why wouldn’t we be important? God came to us after all, died for us, supposedly, on this little speck of blue dust in the vast heavenly warehouse of stars and planets. It couldn’t be that we are only a corner the janitor missed with his broom.
Silent, But For the Birds
The air has suddenly stilled, unswirled by truck tires or helicopter rotors. In that voiceless space, bird song is newly audible: variable thrush melodies, sharp jay scratch, quick sparrow cheep. But what I first notice is absence: emptiness between leaves, moments between songs, spaces where my father used to laugh and does no longer.
©2020 Laurel Peterson
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