Goop in the Void
Heidimarie Stefanyshyn-Piper: I can barely pronounce your name
but have been thinking of you ever since your grease gun
erupted into space. Causing your tool bag to slip
beyond the reach of your white glove
when you were attempting to repair the space station's
solar wing. Thanks
for that clump of language: solar wing. One of the clumps
of magick shat out by our errors. And thanks
to your helmet camera's not getting smeared,
in the inch between your glove and bag--irrevocable inch--
we see the blue Earth, glowing so lit-up'dly
despite the refuse we've dumped in its oceans,
the billions of tons of plastic beads we use to make
the action figures that come with our Happy Meals.
Precursors to the modern Christmas tree and modern handle of the ax.
Precursors to the shoes and vinyl jackets of the vegans.
The clean-up crews call them mermaid's tears, as if a woman
living in the water would need to weep in polymer
so that her effort would not be lost,
as when riding in the front of the car
she emits a choking sob she fakes a little
to be heard above the engine, so the driver
glances sideways to take note of her wet cheeks. And makes
some show of contrition, or else stares down the orange spear
the sun throws out as it is overtaken
by the horizon of the sea. Which is filled also with plastic shoes
that show up so consistently alone
they cause disturbing dreams about one-legged tribes
such as described by Pliny
(e.g. the Monoscelli who hop wondrous swiftly)
before he sailed across the Bay of Naples, into
Mount Vesuvius's toxic vapor,
big mistake, though we understand the magnet
of volcanic spume. The mermaids are still weeping
from all the charcoal in their eyes,
and though we are not Romans, Heidimarie,
see how the myths keep being synthesized
by us who live 220 miles below you,
queasy from our spinning but still holding on
with no idea we are so brightly shining.
Tin House, Volume 10, Number 4
1 comment:
I love Lucia Perillo, too!
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