At fourteen, I looked up at the sky
and was startled by all the nothing.
I travelled up to where there was no end in all that blue,
and it was all nothing, all of it.
The nothing wrested my heart open and sprung my ribcage,
where it eddied and flowed around my bones.
It was just like the maharishi said
in that book I hid from my mother under my mattress.
I was in the nothing, and I became the nothing,
infinite and coherent.
This was death, the cosmic orgasm
beyond measurement's fence.
For the first time in my life,
I was going to be just fine.
My brother yelled down the beach,
concerned about hot dogs,
and shoved my arm until I looked down
and snapped back,
a loose elastic pulled taut and released on the sand,
and all the nothing burrowed itself down inside me as a small egg
where it waits to hatch
at the end of the world.