MOM IN SPACE
In space, to move is to translate,
as in she translated across the dining module
to the high chair to turn the wide-eyed,
open-mouthed child over
& hit his back repeatedly
between the shoulder blades
until a piece of chicken
just the size of a windpipe
translated out onto the floor.
as in she carried a subaqueous nocturnal
mammal in a bespoke pouch,
translated it over maria—
molten rock solidified
over centuries—to the
designated landing site,
fired the descent engine,
till the contact light blazed.
as in she stared at the orange bottle
with her name on it, eyes
distorted from the fluid
buildup of spaceflight,
tried to translate the name
of this month’s medication,
move it from nonsense to sense,
its chalky discs ready to trick
her pituitary, make the moon
inside her wax gibbous,
not leave a dark sphere
in lieu of light.
as in the body translated to the heavens,
the equigravisphere, hanging between
celestial spheres, not pulled
toward one or the other’s gravity,
not orbiter, not satellite,
her own planet, away from
calamity, slurry, gristle,
tranquil in the silence
until the ground calls up again,
and she fires a booster
on her jetpack,
lets Earth’s liquid iron core
pull her into orbit once again.
STAY-AT-HOME CHRONICLES
I miss space, when I’m not
reading about it, the isolation
of the Station, closed circuit,
water recirculator pulling H20
from exhalation and sweat,
molecule to potable.
Here, lethargic yellow jackets
keep showing up inside,
the females, pest control says, woken
up early, searching out
the right spot for a nest. We’re not
sure how they get in.
One module of the Station
infamously had a drilled
hole, atmosphere slowly leaking out
to vacuum till they
noticed. Our fridge abruptly
whirrs as the ice maker
pulls in a stream of water,
hurtles a cold cube
into the dark freezer.
I dream a psychopath
is preparing to kill repeatedly.
We fashion a mask
from a T-shirt. My son
calls it the king virus,
and I keep him away
from the vespine interlopers.
He runs barefoot after
my husband mows
the lawn, squeezes clippings
in his fists,
hands and feet stained green,
face flushed with
a temporary joy. On the Station,
after they grew
red romaine leaves, they
dressed some with balsamic
and olive oil and ate them,
the clay soil that nourished them
ensconced safely in a Teflon-
coated Kevlar pillow.
***
Photograph of Lisa Ampleman by Jess Jelsma Masterton.
