Excalibur in a Black Hole

The hand that caught the sword decisively—
in spite of hesitation on the part

of that despairing knight to send it back
into the lake at last—to give it up—

the hand that bolted from the water like
a blade itself—that made a perfect fist
around the flailing hilt—making them one—

that hand is like the singularity
entrenched behind the deep’s event horizon—

where everything we know is not quite lost
to time—but taken out of time itself—

sequestered by a godlike grip whose pressure
wrenches light—erupting glimmers in mist—
after-effects outlasting entire epochs—

the image of that hand before it dips
below the surface—knowing what must be done

must be undone—not saving ruined hopes
but catching the ruins when and where they fall—

that image of the hand indefinitely
held above the heart of the abyss
would say—if it could speak—There is an Order—

First published in The Borough.