Black Hole Poem by MARINA GIPPS

A teacher with a bag of tricks,
Gold stars for the fool in the duncecap,
dressed like a klansman in a Catholic school.
How many stars can one collect
before sleep, and still counting?

We are in a time warp years later,
black hole seething.
How do we get out?

High up in the north sky,
making snow angels of death
in the dusk knowing it would be
our last time together.

Kissing as deeply as the darkness suctions
Its stars into being; or lack thereof.
This inevitable vortex,
When will we sprinkle the universe with some stars?

Like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs,
it should never had transpired.
This goodnight after a deep and cavernous goodbye.
Do you hear me or is there an echoe here?