What do I tell her? It is my black hole,
where a universe ended, stars becoming less -
for, surely, I cannot give her more
than a metaphor.
I’ll say gravity
instead of how I was pulled into the orbit of a man
who was not my man;
for how sometimes your phone knows who to call
when you cannot call.
That a mistake can be a meteor, the lost
tail of a comet, a smoldering crater
on your wrist days later.
It was an accident, Baby Girl -
sometimes adults are foolish
and when you are older
we’ll sit and talk
of deeper pains.
Rhiannon Thorne’s work has appeared in Midwest Quarterly, Foundling Review, Sheepshead Review, Sierra Nevada Review, and Bop Dead City. She is the managing editor of cahoodaloodaling, a book reviewer and associate interviewer at Up the Staircase Quarterly, and an editorial intern for Sundress Publications. She may be found at rhiannonthorne.com.