At seventeen thousand miles an hour
even paint flecks are an emergency
slowing my orbit and sapping the speed
of each recovery that begs for power.
And although the planet arcs the window
frame (for my alignment), the stone-skipping
stall across the atmosphere doesn’t bring
guarantees when the heat-shield starts to glow,
when (at five thousand degrees) whole histories
burn off in one last prayer: a question tucked
to your knees hoping you’ll suffer through it,
that temper won’t tangle the chute or seize
death by the throat; that oceans are made up
like wombs—brimming with embryonic fluid.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
