Holo Boundaries

Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth

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We’ve spent hundreds of hours and

devoured hundreds of thousands

of

words building the future, cars that hover and blur,

screens that flicker behind our eyes and

over our heads. Streaks of

starships

overhead, leaving behind a trail of ink and drawn

paper. We’ve met the aliens so

many times, conquered more earth

than the moon, passed the solemn face of Pluto and her

three

or four inconsequential cousins—at least I’ve

enjoyed

the stories. The

scopes have focused on the miasma of the outer rims

of space, snapped

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shots like pop rocks magnified and consumed. But now I’m

slung

out here in the spin of

furious things, a weekend holiday in the

sun’s breakfast room, gazing out at the

universe. A universe that

breathes in when I do, relieves

stress by shifting the

planets slowly

around to the music of their ballet spheres. The owner

handed down

a map when I

arrived, jabbed at the

keys in the stars with his worn finger, regal

twin to

the finger outstretched

toward

Adam in Michelangelo’s momentary sketch, humanity's

humble creation.

Glancing down, I shudder and grin

at the name carefully scrawled across the map—

my

own. I must have

been here before. God

only nods and continues to point—

at the

supernovas cobbling together new stars, at the birth

of the pillars of creation crawling

out of the youngest nebula, magnetic

clouds that cling to

my imagination. Keep breathing, in and out, up and down,

let the

universe guide your lungs and traveling mind. If you get down

on your

knees and squint, you’ll recognize the

stitches

binding the universe together—the same fabric makes

up me

.