I began wanting to be an astronaut
but the world said There is already
a monopoly on satellites. World,
you have your own explorations to
commit to. Now like a vacated sofa
holding human shape you are an
oddity of space. This is my counsel:
in the closing days no cloud will take
a tether. If the seas cough up their
silver we can dance on a beachhead
shod in scales. The astronauts return
as diving bells, beaten stellar in the
absence of a breeze. Turn the radio
off. The sky got sick waiting for you.
Chris Emslie is assistant editor at ILK journal. His poems have appeared in PANK, The Pinch & elsewhere. With Caroline Crew, he is co-author of the chapbook YOUR STUPID FORTUNE GIVES ME STUPID HOPE (Furniture Press, 2014). He lives in Tuscaloosa, where he is an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama.