Professor Stephen Hawking and the Lump

The radiologist would like a closer look.
Between the spot compression
and the ultrasound, I balance
hibiscus tea in a porcelain cup,
scan the magazines for something
more remote or theoretical
than swimsuit fashions.

Stephen Hawking has radically
altered his theory about black holes;
anything (you, me, cosmic dust, the red
light of its binary twin) that falls
beyond the star's event horizon
will not be annihilated.

Holding a pose on my back,
I watch the screen as a tech
maps the margins of a mass
more hole than lump, dark
on the display, swallowing
every heartbeat. The doctor tries
to comfort me with probabilities.

If you jump into a black hole,
your mass energy will be returned
to our universe, but in a mangled form,
which contains the information
about what you were like,
but in an unrecognizable state.

At dusk, I am reluctant
to slip off the red elastic lace
holding everything together.
I attempt a sensual pose, feel
my husband's fingers pause
for a moment on my left breast.
The sun, too, hesitates before it falls
beyond the black horizon.