Singularity

With every self portrait going up in a wild-

fire, I scour

this dead planet for any signs of life.

Forecasts predict Earth’s souring with each

coming century: every sun-

burst heralds news of another extinction.

A honeymoon turned marooning.

My biology prevents me

from writing a better ending to this story.

Hypothesis: the universe was born

as an act of violence. When Pán gǔ

divorced heaven from ground, the yolk

splayed like an oil slick. An origin

shattered on impact. Came in the shape

of a bullet and left as such. Another life

lived posthumously. Again, my prayers are left

on voicemail, every deity out for lunch.

Still, these are the pages I cut

from our history: every version of my

-self frayed beyond recognition.

I theorize: it’s no coincidence that fish hooks

are shaped after question marks. The way there’s

no way to save a body reversed

back to its origins. Down to my atoms,

I am all instinct. So, I turn

away every search party. Dissect

the organs of every life

raft, and leave it all behind in the next house fire.