Kim Parko White Hole Somewhere there are stars above the luminous haze. That's what we can tell our children. Even now, there are dark places rare as snow leopards. Both will fall into the white hole. My hate for what we've done is so deep and round it is almost a womb. Almost. But what do I actually hate? Me, Them, Us? On the road to work, I saw a truck that belonged to a vet. Some of the wars advertised on the back: Desert Storm, Operation Freedom. I felt love for the vet in the truck who had fought in these wars. I did not know the driver, but I knew the vehicle. Later, a man without a home told me anything would help. I wanted to say it's the system when he started to explain. But I felt my own love like a glaringness, like a white hole sucking everything into it. I gave him a box of granola bars, which was hardly anything, but at least not a thing as useless as my love.