NO COINCIDENCE
by Elizabeth Iannaci
This afternoon the sky is pure blue,
though I know the color of space
is bottomless black punctuated
by stars & sunlight. Edges beyond
the Oort cloud, where not even static can exist,
are frayed. Physicists compare this
to a bubble, while mystics say galaxies
resemble bubbles that rise in a glass
of sparkling wine, popping
when their time is up. Theorists predict that
one day instruments will measure emotions
moving through space, images of energies—
iridescent spheres (not unlike bubbles)
bonding together in clusters
so dim they’re almost invisible.
I don’t believe in coincidence.
Last night I dreamed I floated inside
one of those globes. I saw more clearly
than I could ever perceive with my eyes:
oceans, cresting, swelling,
each drop revealing endless fractals
of seas; I envisioned in every grain
of sand, the mountain that fathered it;
in any tree, the cycle: seed, stem, bud,
blossom, then the wilt and decay
becoming new soil, anxious for the acorn
the squirrel forgets. I awoke to a siren of light
splitting the shutter’s slats with song.
