She is sleeping.
He is awake.
She always falls asleep before he does.
The sound of her breathing calms him.
It pushes the ghosts out from his rooms.
With the backs
of his fingers he rubs her elbow, and listens.
He wishes to pluck her heart
like an eyelash or a flower
from her chest
and make an infinite map out of it.
She knows he must use his hands to make things.
His hands are restless things.
He talks with them, like blind birds.
He uses them to hold her.
In the morning, he will make tea with them.
They will drink from the same cup.
I says you should never come back.
You should stay up there with your impossible wifi and show me the world a bit at a time. Send me videos peeking at mixed nuts floating and the sounds of what you listen to when you are unable to sleep in a breathing aluminum telescope.
I am never going into space.
Don’t tell me otherwise, I am already floating in my own acceptance.
I’m going to be too busy corralling kids and placing my palms onto old books.
Those are the sights and sounds waiting for me.
Of course, how can I say you can never come back when you are so welcome here. I know I am only thinking about pinpoint Sara while there are so many others who have been missing your three dimensional face. I’m sure you miss her steady ground where the entire world can’t see you. I have come to understand that why it is hard to cry in space, and I bet it hurts.
Just please. Please stay there in your endless glass tunnel and keep sending me these blind letters. They are pocket stars that are warm in my palms. Comforting all those summers I didn’t go to space camp and the B I made in Intro Physics. I feel so much doubt when I look at foaming galaxies.
You flew overhead on my last youthful birthday. I did not look hard but I knew, as I looked over my own sea of incandescent light, we were aligned. Our energies are one in the same to be released in mirrored directions.
Please, do not let your feet become heavy on Earth. It happens so easily.
Making biscuits with my mom
in the Livingston homestead.
Pull and push flour, milk, and vinegar.
Clay tasting a little tangier than
the ones I baked in the snack cabinet
when I was five.
Our hands looked like marble
broken from my fidgeting.
When I drove back,
a golden moon peeked out at me,
like the edge of a dime behind another.
It swung from one side to the other,
veiling itself behind the trees.
I called out to my mother
to let her know I could see her.
Photographing the floor beneath the sky above your feet
This is a thing.