Now, Spaceman

Now, the pinhole sky seems only a whit:
jammed in this two foot window’s darkened pit.
I was launched towards heaven with a kiss,
Never thought ether could be so remiss.

Now, I’m hooking this pathetic tin can
around the moon with just my prayers’ lan,
claustrophobic I say my ubi sunt:
Earth seemed far away when I was on it.

Now, I’m hearing a mechanical screech,
instruments say what I don’t want to know —
while those words of my own, I chose to bleach,
saying rhymes, “tell my wife I love her so.”

Now, I’m counting down for the second time;
the calm of yesterday I chose to mime
because the lie will loop this fickle moon:
“Tell her that, I’ll be back to see her soon.”

***

Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of the Polytechnic Institute at Purdue University, where he received his Ph.D. in English. He teaches cross-disciplinary courses that blend humanities with other areas. He has published over 60 poems in over 20 different journals (mostly within the past year). He also has critical work recently published in Symbolism and Cinematic. He loves to travel.