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Marjorie Buettner

The Surface of Last Scattering

Unable to sleep, last night I imagined that I could hear the echo of the big bang, listening to the beginning of matter as if it were my heart beat, the disintegration and reintegration of particles colliding, resurfacing, submerged mimicking the chaos in my veins. Just so, 50 years too late, I think, to shake my father awake from his own reenactment of this first disorder, his last scattering, our only heritage.

looking for your grave
prairie grass rippling
all the way down hill

haiku previously published in Frogpond

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