My penned praises circle back to stars. The luster of clusters of gas.
The lasting they make idiosyncratic. The vastness they close tight.
I ask, how can my body fill this now and want to think of distance?
As I turn my telescope inward. As it all constellates different.
On Wednesday, 9:25 pm, Bob & Doug tore upward, outfitted in white,
landing smoothly (so I’ve heard secondhand) on drone ship Of Course
I Still Love You. Spaceman, do you think of home?
Meanwhile folks stoke the rebellion. Light fires to wires tying lies
of hierarchy. Meanwhile a virus vies on. Silent stealing of abuelitas
from windows, exposing brick of a system built to kill. Meanwhile
arrestors wrest rosaries from little fingers in cages. But names live
on lips. The boomerangs come back.
For some here, breath is a question. Tear gas first response in a dialogue.
Disinfectants drawing blood. The essential on ventilators. A sky choked
coal black in these streets they deem dirty. Do hungry lungs ever fill
all the way? In zero gravity you’re stocked up with oxygen. Spaceman,
pray your stores don’t run out.
Why is it you wanted to leave so badly? Or maybe, why did you come
back? Was this history not a lesson? The ravaging insufficient? Why
stake claims on new moons to infect?
Down here, there are partners still dancing. There are hands pressed warm
on smalls of backs. There are rainbows on bubbles, in the air of it all. There’s
a counting of blessings, resolve to dissolve, a promise to stay, in the wind.
Spaceman, we know that the stars can wait for us. We know they’ll still
Luna Mac-Williams can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.