Sunset On Mars
is blue. Like me. Who knew
the red planet had such tender evenings,
cyan watercolor skies
over desertscapes so harsh
they might be painted by O’Keeffe.
The Perseverance Rover
sent this photo to my phone.
What strange monkeys we are
sending robot paparazzi
to the heavens, while destroying
our imperfect paradise.
I taught Paradise Lost
for the last time. I still hate Milton—
in league with Cromwell—
his wet-dream Eve, insufferable
Father, and sock-puppet Son
but, like all the girls, seduced
by Satan, inventor of Byron
and modern war.
And you,
where are you roving
freed from your brave body?
Have you been to Mars,
coasted Heaven, seen Earth
dangling by her golden chain,
a trinket in space, a precious locket
enclosing my face and hair?
Can you even remember me
in all that vastness?
Even so,
it must be hard to find
the right year, like cartoon
time machines—
to navigate spacetime
like Polynesians paddling their dugout
canoes across the ocean
detecting deep sea swells
through their scrota.
Are you kayaking back to Fiji?
Still, I wait for you, my captain,
to appear in the kitchen.
So far, just tiny visitations—
haiku waft out of books
in your loose lefty scrawl:
geese flying off
into the fog
taking me with them
First published in “The Comstock Review”