The Astronauts
If I’m the sun, then people I love
whirl past me in elliptical orbits
like comets, once in a hundred years.
And if I’m a planet, each is a moon
with a dark side. Crooked in the arm
of a galaxy, I spiral at light-speed,
but since all matter’s in motion I
appear to be sitting still
in an armchair, reading the learned
astronomer’s biography. Cecilia
Payne-Gaposhkin, who charted
more stars than anyone in her Harvard
observatory, lived down the street
from where my daughter fought
first to root then to be free
of Daddy and me. Astronauts,
argonauts, kids want to be naught
but themselves, without our gravity
warping the space and time a hero
claims. Snubbing the likeness of all
happy families, they’re eager to grapple
with Venus and Mars, or the Martian
twin satellites, Terror and Fear. I siren
come closer, darling — both are here.