above the disaster room

and just before the rocket flies into the moon,
the men burrowed in a crater wonder
what they will say to their loved ones.

they ask how much time is left
and the stars blink back at them in morse code.
not much, they say.

so the men build a tower out of moon rocks
and zero-gravity, breathing space dust
through pea-sized holes in their helmets

that settles in their stomachs. at the top,
they can see the edge of a black hole,
that is, like them, a self-fulfilling prophecy.

they blow kisses toward earth and dangle their feet,
shoelaces unraveling, floating like their hands
in front of their faces.

Shelbi Church is a poet based in Boston, MA. She earned her BFA in creative writing from Emerson College. Her work can be found in Hobart, the lickety~split, and 86 Logic.

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