Little Black Holes
ďÖ could be drifting around our solar system
like dust motes in an old house.Ē
óSan Francisco Chronicle, July 2006

Finally, something to blame for lonely socks
and missing lighters. They lurk in closets
eating spiders and old photos at will

while others sneak out at night, run tabs
at the bar, then sneak back
into my brain to dine on dendritic spines,

so itís not my fault I canít remember
my motherís birthday or the names
of all the boys and girls Iíve kissed.

When my boyfriend asks for the book
I borrowed and lost, I will tell him
subatomic black holes exist, and they take

what they wantómemories, dreams,
minutes of precious sleep. Weíll have to hide
the things we want to keep, not the whiskey night,

but the night before that, its splintered porch,
beans simmering slowly upstairs, one light
in the alley stacking wood, shadow, wood.

We can leave the rest sitting outódrunk fights,
ex-wives, whatever settles in the space
between our fears. Stack them neatly

in the corner or at the foot of our bed,
wait for the holes to feast,
watch our offerings disappear.

Jenny Yang Cropp is a PhD student in English at the University of South Dakota. She has an MFA from Minnesota State University-Mankato, and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Blue Earth Review, Eclipse, Hayden's Ferry Review, Superstition Review, and Poetry Southeast. (

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761