What We Know, or Not Through the mounds of drifted white a squirrel, perhaps, leaves its trail, has leapt from hedge to tree then scrambled up the trunk to hang on a branch, or not, daring itself to fall, then darts to sturdiness, sits with an acorn in near-human hands, hunched like The Thinker before the downward scurry. Only conjecture. Eons above, on a winter’s night, Orion searches for bits of stars that fell from his belt and became neutrinos or some-such invisible particles. The glow of the Milky Way is lost in dark matter, which probably exists and could swallow everything whole at any moment, licking its lips, filling its dark belly with nothingness. And through it all the world keeps turning, stars keep spinning in a cosmic sleight-of-hand, where humans are pulled out of a hat like rabbits, or not, like a coin in the hand of a magician who tucks it behind the ear of a child at a birthday party, when tricks are applauded, tracks left on a snow-covered garden, and we try to guess what is the truth.
Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, ParisLitUp, Meniscus, Agenda, Gradiva and other journals. Her most recent book of poetry is EDGES.