We’ve seen this movie before, and here’s the part where he finds the bodies, finds himself in mirrored caverns, a gallery of pallid twins asleep in metal cradles. I doze off on your shoulder while he’s checking their thumbs for spindle-pricks, kissing them awake to raise a barren colony. I wake up as he draws a portrait of his wife in sterile dust like the indelible footprints left by his hallowed predecessor. You wipe drool off your shoulder and press your mouth on my hair.

The man on television is making a village out of popsicle sticks, a microcosm he wants to curl into with his oxygen and scarf and postcards. He wants to know if his wife remembers the constellation of freckles on his back, he wants to brush an eyelash off her cheek, he wants to say her name somewhere the sound doesn’t die. I ask you whether you’ll call my name the next time you’re spinning softly within a woman’s gravity, four feet above black water, bodies in the lake and nothing underneath. You hold me a little tighter and say you don’t forget details.

The man on screen is beating his fists against insentient rock. He has effaced the fingertip trace of his earth-bound lover. I understand him, and want to be like him, never giving up on altering the dismal course of linear orbit. I understand how much it aches to be an afterthought, Saturn’s seventh ring, pure white glove on the surface of the moon.


2 thoughts on “Moon.

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