Sonca Hoang

Between the off–white

slits of my bladed blinds
8:37 spills

into the room. Makes clear
the dust in the air, curls

of my coffee carpet.
My cat, gold

and tiger–coated, stalks
through the beams.

Warm in hazy glow, he shakes
off the light

stripes slipping down
his back, ruffled and content.

*

I dress myself against
the wall, barred

yellow on beige.
Outside,

the world is in slices.

After Careful Consideration of the Possibility
That the Universe Infinitely Destroys and
Regenerates Itself

 

Maybe we were here before
and everything we are
everything that is
was here
before.
Does that make us
immortal?
Does the marrow in my bones
burn like stars
dying—

Can I remember the black
neverending
nothingness
when it was cramped
and exhausted, ready to
burst?

Do I know how the Universe feels
when she can’t reach out
and fold
over, remind herself
what she looks like
on her other side?
Do I know how she despairs
when she can’t recall
what came first
who died last
and when they’ll come back?

Yes.

I get on the bus.
We are cold,
more distant than ever.

I know it won’t last, this
masquerade—
we’ll smile
make small talk
scribble numbers
and trade tacky cardstock
business plaques.
Then we forget—always.
But it’s not all that
bad.
Tomorrow,
we’ll do it again.

And isn’t that more
interesting than
one
big

bang?