Posted by Atticus on September 5, 2004, at 21:30:01
Edge of the Atmosphere’s Sapphire Arc
Two urban orphaned
Astronauts,
Treading
On the unsteady
Wind-swept tails
Of pedal-to-the-metal comets,
Cosmic hitchhikers
In search of
A celestial highway,
Star-crossed,
Looking lost,
No map to the nearest
Nebulae
To be found,
Tethered together
By an emotional
Umbilicus,
A lifeline
Wrought
Of compassion
And confusion
For mutual survival
In the hard vacuum
Of the void,
For warmth
Against
The meat-locker chill
Of the ward,
As we face
The almighty airlock
Through which
We cannot pass
Into the world
Beyond,
Planet of
Our birth.We drift,
Stranded spacewalkers,
Facing
Steel doors
Icily indifferent
To our blood sacrifice,
Offered
From wrists
And veins
Like
Profane sacramental
Wine.
And we offer
Entreaties
To mission-control psychiatrists,
Hoping
To swing wide
These gates
And catch
A rapturous
Rocket
To the surface
From this orbit
In the darkness
At the edge
Of the atmosphere’s
Sapphire arc,
To wander freely
Once again
So far, far below
In the gentle exhalations
Of the sun’s
Holy breath.“They say I may
Go home today,”
Says Eleanora
In hushed tones,
Her voice
As ephemeral
As the whisper
Of solar winds.
And I turn
To face
My 16-year-old
Companion
To see hope
Struggling against
The crushing weight
Of past
Disappointments,
When
The meetings
With the
Therapists
And the
Nurses
And the
Social workers
And her
Parents
Did not go
Well,
And she came
To me
In tears,
And I stroked
Her hair
As she wept
Against my chest,
Gasped out
Sobs dredged
From the lowest
Depths
Of her shaking
Five-foot frame
While I rocked
Her gently
In a hug
And said,
“Next time,
Next time
For sure.”
And I had
Watched
Her parents
Depart
Through the airlock
Back to Earth,
The monstrous click
The grinding squeal
The insectile buzz,
As the doors
Rolled open
And then
Closed,
Sounding
As final
As the grand blam blast
Of Flash Gordon flame
From a spaceship’s
Tail
As it pulled away,
Leaving only
The spectral stink
Of hot sulfur
And an aftertaste
Of ashes
On Eleanora’s tongue.We’d come
To the ward
Late
On the same
Spring night,
Our tales of pain
Writ
In the language
Of the flashing blade
Across our wrists,
Hers covered with dozens
Of shallow
Slashes,
Hieroglyphs of the hopeless,
Some new but
Many more old,
And mine all fresh
All stitched
All swathed in bandages,
Three lightning-bolt
Eruptions
That crackled along
My left forearm
From the base
Of my hand
For eight inches
Like
Coruscating
Waves of red energy
Moving along
Venous high-tension wires.We’d begun to talk
Hesitantly,
Then torrentially,
About the events
That had led us
To this otherworldly outpost,
This Alpha Centauri colony
Of the damaged
And the lost.
I showed her
The wrappings
Hidden
Under the sleeve
Of my robe
And told her
What lay beneath them,
And Eleanora promised
To keep it a secret,
Then rubbed my back
After a nurse
Forced me
To talk about it
In a group session,
A dozen sets of eyes
All riveted
On my arm,
As if
At a freak show,
Pondering the gruesome
Handiwork
I’d tried so hard
To conceal.We’d rolled like
Five year olds
On the floor
When pet therapists
Brought
A golden retriever
Onto the ward,
Both Eleanor and I
Shrieking, “Doggy!”
In delight
When he was led
Into the room,
A spontaneous duet
That left us
Laughing
At our identical reaction,
For age meant nothing
In this place
So very far
From the lives
We’d known
As Earthlings,
And a 16 year old
And 33 year old
Could become
The best of friends.
We hugged the dog
And wouldn’t let go
As he whirled excitedly
From Eleanora to me
And back again,
Licking our faces
Until the nurse reminded us
We had to share.
And when I was later told
That I had to I exchange
My dog hair-covered robe
For a clean one,
I stood defiantly
In the corridor,
Arms crossed,
Lower lip
Thrust outwards
In a pout,
Liking the smell
Left by the shaggy visitor
On the fabric
Too much
To give it up,
Until the big male nurse
Named José
Began to head
In my direction,
And, resentfully,
I surrendered it,
Wriggling into
A new spacesuit
And stomping away
In rubber-soled booties,
Seething,
To my room,
Until Eleanora slipped in
And said, “Quick, hide this
Under your mattress,”
And I slipped the robe
That she’d retrieved
From the hamper
Out of sight,
Carefully removing it
After lights out
When my roommate
Was asleep,
To breath in
The rich scent
Of fur
And pure animal joy,
Curling up with it
Like a teddy bear
Amid the anti-septic odors
Of chemical cleansers
Circulating endlessly
Through the air vents.But now Eleanora
Has another chance
To show she has
The Right Stuff
The Mercury Seven mettle
The Chuck Yeager coolness
To earn a ride
On the next capsule
Slated for splashdown
In Central Park
Near the Loeb Boathouse
At 75th Street,
Where oarsmen
In authentic
Venetian gondolas
Will ferry her
To a hero’s welcome,
To a ticker tape-strewn
Triumph
On terra firma.The rest of us
Are summoned
For group
And I ask her
To come say goodbye
If the High Council
Of Mongo
Approves
Her release,
Feeling pulled
In two directions,
Torn by opposing
Emotional gravities,
Not wanting her
To get hurt again,
Not wanting her
To go,
Leaving only emptiness
At the end
Of my severed
Star-walker’s tether.But when the meeting’s
Finally over,
I emerge
To find her gone.
She’s riding giddy waves
Of extraterrestrial ether
Back to
The mother world.
The nurses
Wouldn’t let her
Knock on the door
And interrupt the session,
So I sway
On rubbery legs,
Shoulders sagging,
Until José tells me
To go and check
The front desk.And waiting there
Is a bouquet
Of stunning
Pink wild roses
With red-tipped petals,
Brought by Eleanora’s mom
And passed on
To me,
Removed
From their glass container
And placed
In an improvised vase
Made of two Styrofoam cups
Taped lip to lip,
With an opening poked
In the top
For the stems
And a penciled inscription
From Eleanora
Etched into the side:
My name
And the phrase
“Good luck
With everything!
Love, Eleanora,”
Punctuated
With a smiley face
At the end
Of the final line.And I feel
Such pure
Such pristine
Joy
As I reverently
Lift the flowers
From the Formica
Countertop
That José
Grins
At my happy
Dazed expression
And claps me
On the shoulder.
And I carry
The bouquet
Almost everywhere
I go
Until my own ticket
Through the airlock
Arrives
Four days later,
Placing the treasure
On the small dresser
Beside my bed
In the ward
Every night
So I fall asleep
Dreaming
Of dear friendships
As transitory
And as sweet
As being 16.
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:386863
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040828/msgs/386863.html