Rocket

Fold up my mind into an envelope, mail it, put it on a truck and drive it through every town along the way from here to the Coast.  Put me on a bus and kiss me goodbye, send me on my way.  Put me on a rocketship to the moon of some other earth, tell me goodbye and hold my son up so I can see him one last time and so that he can see that his daddy’s face is smiling and waving goodbye and cannot see that inside I am dying one long death.  He cannot see that inside I am bleeding out and back in, ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump, as the newsreels squeeze me onto a flatscreen and stamp me with a headline.  He can’t see anything but my face.  He can’t see anything.  Nobody now can see anything but the engine flare as I go up into ether and glory and crushing nothing.  What does any of it mean?  This rush of words, this rush of life now entering me and leaving me.  Now soaking the ground and my hair and this space-worthy aluminum. This metal ripped from the ground and thrust into the sky.  This cooling crude flesh ripped from Annie’s bed and thrust into a white jumpsuit and the metal.  Just as my son will one day be ripped from her or her from him.  Just as everyone I know is dead and I am dead.

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