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I have to admit,

this poem is not about swans

or visiting the plot

where my father is buried.

In fact, he's still alive.

I said that so you

would read this:

there are no

such things as swans

or graves or fathers.

Only flight. Put down this poem,

see it now: the black hole

stretching like a mouth,

taking in houses, oceans,

planets. Open your eyes,

quicken past moons,

novas, nebulae, dying

suns. Let the vacuum

swallow you until

the surrounding light curves

so far into itself you see

the back of your body.




Scott Hughes received an MFA from Georgia College & State University in 2004. He is currently seeking an agent for the first book in his young adult fantasy series. His work has appeared in Crazyhorse and Redivider and is forthcoming in Crab Creek Review and Seasons in the Night. You can send Scott mail at richardscotthughes@hotmail.com.
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