“Of Course I Still Love You”
Name of the drone ship that served as the landing pad
for the Falcon 9 rocket, May 30, 2020.
Close to liftoff, I stop sifting through childhood
photos and switch my gaze to the TV.
My dog’s tail tick-tocks while a clock
on the screen counts down to zero.
Bank accounts low, each morning
my husband rises from bed and drives
to the café to flip soft pancake discs,
increasing his velocity during the breakfast rush.
I am trying to keep a home—sweeping
linoleum, organizing old pictures: me
at one year old, my family gathered
around a highchair tied with balloons.
Today, astronauts strap themselves
into a rocket, carving a route to Mars.
I should celebrate our ascension,
but I’m afraid we’ll leave the earth
in shambles. Last night, neighbors
howled at the moon, while in canyons
of city streets citizens marched through flames.
Aeronaut, juggernaut—we should not leave
until we know how to help each other
be free—here, where trees know us,
where we first learned the pleasure
of planting our feet in mud. The pilots
are ready to launch. Of Course I Still Love You,
repeats the newscaster, and I can’t help it:
my breath catches as the shuttle climbs—
single candle toward the sky’s bright mouth.