A blackhole

I am the son of a son of a son of the Sun, which is a yellow blob that blobs yellow in my hair, which is a product of happenstance and mutation and love and anything but, which is an anatomical feature that I have and am lucky enough to share with my family who also have butts, which again a function of happenstance and mutation and love and anything but, which is a conjunction that my parents learned when they flew into a cough of snow – Siberia someone said – and when they found out it wasn’t such a place, though they still cleaned toilets and blood and me and my butt, which has been more messy than I’d like to admit yet not as messy as my parents know in an arm’s length of scrub-scrub and wash-wash and yellow blobs of hair getting wet because of a son’s solar flares. But at least they weren’t supernovas.