Abi Newhouse-Vaughn

Some Hole in the Sky

I’m a star, she’s a star, they are stars, and we revolve. I like to think I’m new and bright and untainted, but I only pick the darkest hypothesis to spin around. The movement makes me dizzy, round and round some hole in the sky.


I saw your face and it was empty. Only light sucks around you in swirls and slips. My hand warped into squiggles when I touched your cheek. My arm looked long and lean and suddenly so spaghetti thin. My face must have slid into yours—teeth and eyes and brain a shaky mesh—until you take me altogether.


You must be a black hole. I must be a wandering star, so small, so easy to take. How else could I drift right into you? I’m lost inside you, some dimension that blurs and drags lines, and some place I should escape.


Some place I don’t want to leave,


although giving into you means destruction.


But then again, you are a guess. An estimation. And there’s something safe in not knowing.

Abi Newhouse-Vaughn is an undergraduate student at Utah State University and has one poem published in Cornell’s undergrad journal, Rainy Day, and a poem in Issue 3 of Chantwood Magazine.

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