Gravity
"I will go to the moon",
she decided, having listened to her teacher.
The lesson, intended to provoke wonder
as urchins peered into the chill autumn sky,
had taught her that hearts are like planets
whose inhabitants errantly seek diets and liposuction.
"Sixteen percent", he lectured, was their moon weight.
Weight, this newly ephemeral encumberance -
travel to a smaller place; it disappears.
She remembered this, driving on empty northern roads,
smiling as the last radio station sputtered into muffled discord.
"No, not the moon."
Now young again, her father is reading to her
of a Little Prince and a remote asteroid;
Yearning to colonize his planet, she imagines
unwelcome acquaintances impinging upon her solitude.
And when she said "jump",
they would all float away.
Upon arriving in this smaller world,
she sought out the smallest dwelling she could find;
Not so much as a cat could share the space.
Gravity could not keep anyone else.
She is looking up into the orange twilight sky at noon, lost in memories.
A sliver of sunlight creeps over the treeline
for the first time in two moons;
Squinting, she follows its retreat over the coming minutes.
"They are all still with me,"
she ponders, reflecting on the caveat of an old gradeschool lecture.
"Weight changes, mass remains the same."
she decided, having listened to her teacher.
The lesson, intended to provoke wonder
as urchins peered into the chill autumn sky,
had taught her that hearts are like planets
whose inhabitants errantly seek diets and liposuction.
"Sixteen percent", he lectured, was their moon weight.
Weight, this newly ephemeral encumberance -
travel to a smaller place; it disappears.
She remembered this, driving on empty northern roads,
smiling as the last radio station sputtered into muffled discord.
"No, not the moon."
Now young again, her father is reading to her
of a Little Prince and a remote asteroid;
Yearning to colonize his planet, she imagines
unwelcome acquaintances impinging upon her solitude.
And when she said "jump",
they would all float away.
Upon arriving in this smaller world,
she sought out the smallest dwelling she could find;
Not so much as a cat could share the space.
Gravity could not keep anyone else.
She is looking up into the orange twilight sky at noon, lost in memories.
A sliver of sunlight creeps over the treeline
for the first time in two moons;
Squinting, she follows its retreat over the coming minutes.
"They are all still with me,"
she ponders, reflecting on the caveat of an old gradeschool lecture.
"Weight changes, mass remains the same."