Black Dwarf

Margaret V.Doran

Life can be so . . . confining
I try to make a little room for myself
     I stick my elbows out and wiggle around a little
     I breath a little deeper and roll my shoulders, eyes closed
     but as I start to stretch I bump up against . . . life
and when I awaken it yet again, it retaliates,
I push back, but it is more powerful,
squishes me back into submission
pushing all my parts back to the middle
back to the center
back to oblivion
birthing a black hole
sucking in my thoughts
     my meager ideas
     my creativity
     my goals
     my aspirations
and every vestige of "me"

Life forces me to be something else
     where there is no room to think or stretch
     no room to create
     no room to breath
     no room to live
until even the black hole is slightly a-tilt
lacking stability, off-center,
and careens into space
toward an appointment
toward a thousand appointments
someone else's appointments
until somewhere in space and time
it's energy all spent
there is no self left
only a black dwarf . . . lifeless
without even enough energy to die right

Copyright © 1999 Margaret V. Doran. All rights reserved.
If you enjoyed this poem, please send her an e-mail here.

Written in response to "In the Waiting Room" by Elizabeth Bishop

Updated March 28, 2002
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