Why I Love Lucia Perillo

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