at the center of the galaxy consumed
my husband’s sock, stole
the name of the book—you know, the one
that changed my life, took the maple
in the backyard, the house on the corner
It appears to be eating our grass. I blame
the black hole for absconding with his memory,
with her brilliant idea when she sneezed.
The pages of my journal creak as I search
for the poem about the daisy
(or was it amaryllis), words drawn
from ordinary dust
star dust left
over from the supernova
that started it all
