Star Traveler

White flashes behind your eyes,
two more windows
into nowhere—
I used to travel by spaceship
instead of by will.
Did you ever seize starlight
in your calloused hand
and pull yourself into the sky?
I wear goggles against the vacuum,
a cross against the ghosts
that float with bared fangs.

US! Russia! China!
Sardines wrapped in tin
and calling it gold—
my feet slipped over Saturn’s ice
in my beat-up tennis shoes,
my T-shirt still smells
like the iron of Mars.
There is a way to breathe
solar flares and dust—
I’ll show you how.

Hopping across the sun,
knees splayed to absorb the landing—
my footprints stand across time.
The lack of gravity
can vibrate a heart
at the rhythm of Jupiter’s storms.
I know what cold is,
and I’ve sweated until my blood ran dry;
my bones sipped calcium
from prodigal Pluto.

Come with me.
Strap on your backpack
with a bottle of water
and some bungee cords—
we’ll elbow our way
out of the atmosphere
on the wings of an eclipse.
No need to be afraid
of yourself staring back from the void—
your scars are answer enough.