Beyond the Black

By Isabel Kestner

The door closes, not as most do with lids,
this is black glass you can see into
but not through.  A solid illusion
of a thickness you cannot determine.
Immeasurable, yes, but thin.

It is only liquid a few layers in,
thinner than the lens that alters vision.
Yet it is ice, dangerous and dishonest;
almost the look of doe-eyed fear--
not quite.  It is a disguise.

Much stronger than its size.  It is
anxiety in the hands of a genius that
mathematically finds a way to use it
as a weapon rather than a weakness.
Armor in a black evening dress.

Behind it galaxies overlap, planets
circle fire, worlds implode, a universe
explodes.  It contains the exact
calculations of chaos.  In it every
star is catalogued, every man is evolved.

But you cannot enter into that observatory,
museum, planetarium.  It is locked, solid,
shut.  You slip on the ice, not the
slightest idea of what science is devising
inside.  You look at her eyes, blank,

dark, thick.  There is nothing you can
see in them.  Black coals compressed
deep beneath the surface,  they stare
heavy.  You walk away thinking that
there is nothing in there worth knowing.

 

About Isabel Kestner