Elizabeth Oxley




“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.