By Ann K. Schwader
25 September 2006
Was this what you heard, Edvard Munch,
in that moment
when vision shrieked like a mad sunflower,
when the air turned blood
& event horizons
shimmered in the sunset?
Paint maelstroms into Milky Ways,
a bridge redshifts toward oblivion—
of summary horror,
parenthetical hands quoting void.
At the marrow of nature is death,
& you needed
no dismembered star to guide you:
you shared this galaxy's
from the black hole of your birth.