Osmium

If you look back far enough, or so the theory goes, 
you can begin to build a model of what happened

at the beginning of your life that led inexorably 
to this. “Led inexorably,” people say, because

in/ex/orare—not/out/plead or  
unavoidable: that is, not susceptible to prayer.

“Led inexorably” we keep saying because  
“ed” and “ex” remind us of dead,

because it’s nicer to believe there was a reason, 
that there is a structure. And yes, there is a structure,

but “structure” doesn’t mean solid. Everything falls apart 
on small scales. Even osmium, denser than diamond,  

from quark’s-eye level casts an exploded sky  
of molecules latticed what seems like infinite

distances in all directions. If you look back far enough, 
you’d think you could see to the center, but there is no center

any more than if you look back far enough you could see 
stars emerge like sprites from vast clouds of gases

to dance around a black absence, the smoky fingers  
of gods tipping pendulums, the original spark.  

The first light blossomed maybe fifteen billion years ago,  
everything just a small packet of seeds  

and then a burgeoning of limbs across the night 
because everything was night, and in the night

came the moment a ventricle jumped inside her womb, 
the small, lone thing that stands in for everything

because everything is unavailable, and if you look back far enough  
through the universe of prayers, you begin to see

“everything” is a sieve.