I have solved the mystery of the black hole, it is in my bed, inhaling me and my four children. One after the other after the other after the other small feet down the hallway seek me out in my black hole bed where I open my arms in a wide maw and chew as gently as I can. Sometimes, I am Good Mother and I pull them into the crook of me instead of into the matter crush. I become crescent, I become home. I run my newly old hands through their hair. More often, I am Bad Mother. A contagion of nightmares spreads its infection. Breath so heavy it becomes sound. Feral scream punch. My wild honey tongue; a veil for my locust throat. My children and I were once a singular point. When I was in my mother’s womb they were in mine. Infinite is the black hole of my bed. I create gravity with many blankets in varying fibers. I pull at the string hanging from my daughter’s mouth, unraveling, unspooling leaving holes in her gut. She asks me; What is a belly button? We were once one but the black hole is hungry all the time. I place the end of the string in my mouth, the wet of the yarn grasping my tongue as I slurp and slurp until her light, too, is nothing at all but black hole.