THE SPACE TRAVELER’S WARNING

Benjamin S. Grossberg

Think of Daphne, chased by dirt-
crusted hands, calling out to the darkness
of space, which saved her in a chrome
transformation: her skin glittering
to silver, and where the balls of her feet
struck up dust, now fires and building
exhaust. Think also of our hike
on that craggy planet, how few words
we spoke of each other’s tongue.
Each word a ledge, an outcropping
over rocky spires. I imagined us both
spitted. But I knew, and the knowledge
formed an armature for kindness,
that you were like me — knew it from
what I think were your eyes (hard to tell
behind the fogged up helmet) and how
you knelt toward the soil to point out
the gnawed stumps of trees: something’s
teeth, you said, had eaten them toward
an hourglass; it had backed off without
shouting timber. Under my space mitts,
my hands itched to feel yours. Our laughter
created brief islands of coolness
as if the foliage had thickened or one
of the suns had ducked behind a cloud.
Then we arrived back at our ships,
which hadn’t incorporated, mechanical
fins not reaching out, wires not braiding.
The shielding did not open like robes,
like two creatures enfolding each other
in their raincoats. Think, brother
traveler, as you speed away from me,
of Daphne — thrusting upward through
the closing circle of the god’s arms,
the smoke trail showing her ascent
and the fires that must have seemed bright
even against blue sky and sunlight.
Think of her alone on an endless path
through the galaxy, of her traveling
and traveling and traveling.

2:48 am  •  8 December 2011  •  11 notes  •  view comments