The sun went missing today.

There were no rivers of blood or plagues of locusts,

first-born children did not fall ill, nor did frogs descend on the cities.

It was quiet. 

The black hole stood stagnant.

We could only watch and wait.

My friend Joseph says the aliens are coming.

That they’ll treat you like us specimens.

I’d be put under a microscope and

pinned and mounted like a shiny black beetle.

I have never seen a boy-shaped bug before

but I’m sure it could happen.

Dad’s been watching the 24-hour news broadcasts.

The scientists searched for explanations,

drew us intricate graphs and pictures,

described situations of which there was

only infinitesimal chance of survival.

Nothing was for certain, though.

(A computer can only predict so much.)

Grandma says it’s god.

The black hole’s his giant looking-glass.

(His pupils are the size of stars.)

She said he’s pissed and wants to start over again,

’cause everything turned out wrong.

Dad laughed and called her a crazy old witch.

The sun went missing today.

Laying in my sleeping bag,

I looked up towards the heavens.

And somewhere among the dark night,

there was the twinkle of an eye.