Newsweek tells me that time travel
might be possible if we can first locate
an object with infinite density. I don’t pretend
to understand why, but Google ‘infinite density’
anyway, learn how the laws of physics refuse to comply
in certain places, like black holes, like old memories—
could something like that live here?
see the astronauts towing it home on a string,
their padded hands placing it gently on a pedestal
to be feared and admired,
used for the greater good.
we might go to look at it on a Friday night,
pay an entrance fee to watch the scientists
make history obsolete as they shout to be heard
over the mechanical drone of their progress.
we’ve done it, they’d say,
their faces beaming through bulletproof glass,
and now we will see the future.
the next morning, my local paper will report
the most impressive scientific breakthrough
of the 21st century. I will flip past to the weather
as I reach for a cup of coffee, reach again
to hang a weight on these hands.
anything to slow the ticking,
keep the nectarines unripe, uneaten,
not soft enough yet
I am selfish, see?
everyone I love is now.
I text, pray, hug, call,
check the clock to make sure.