An interstellar apparatus wherein two black holes combine into a single vessel of up and down, each end swallowing all things within gravitational reach.

I mouth out “mom” into black space
and meanings swim inwards, circle downwards,
weighting this want with more want.  I am defined
by the mother-want, by the heave that tugs
on the fingers of passing women, inhaling gardens
of flowery perfumes.

We must be connected, mother:  a wormhole, you
in the parallel universe, a starry, black-eyed
waterfall body where the shadows of children
gush inwards, where sound trails of baby-babble plunge
into that inescapable pit.

We are nets holding an infinity
of want.  What of a resolution?  Perhaps our want will collapse
in on itself.  Perhaps the light of every swallowed star
will reconstruct into a braided rope of photons, dangle
from top to bottom, from my want to your want, from your tug
to mine.

Courtney Hitson earned her MFA in poetry from Columbia College Chicago. Her poetry has appeared in Cobalt Review, Monarch Review, Arsenic Lobster, Lunch Ticket, and others. She and her fiancé, Tom, live with their black cat and white dog in the suburbs of Chicago.