by Nancy Christopherson
Imagine yourself on Jupiter.
You’re wearing your space
suit your helmet and your oxygen level
is fine. Essentially drifting in clouds
of noxious gasses whipped powerfully by wind.
You are blown every direction and toppled
like a tree you have lost your way—
beach ball in a surf—completely—no up or down—
no such thing as a compass here. Your ship reaches down
plucks you up safely because you have called
for it with its invisible mechanical arm. How do
you feel it asks. You don’t really know
but are grateful at this point. Science
may be the only salvation after all you are thinking.
In truth the only salvation for you and your
silly foolish marauding exploring adventuring self.
What time is it. Completely irrelevant
out here alone. Is this irrational.
You have no reference to speak of.
No one is watching. Are you still
conscious. What do you see. Spokes on a wheel.
Pebbles in a dust bin. Large and small moons.
Get some help. Find any living
being make contact. Are you safe.
Can you go home. You want to go home.
Your last plea for mercy.
In what way do you impact the landscape
around you. Have you hurt yourself.
Have you injured anyone else.
Does the wind blow. If so, how hard.
Is this still your imagination. Are you certain.
What are you sure of.
Nancy Christopherson lives and writes in eastern Oregon. She is the
author of one full-length collection of poetry, The Leaf (2015).
Recent poems appear in Helen: A Literary Magazine, Fall Issue 2016,
and in Xanadu Poetry 2016. New work is forthcoming or appears in
Third Wednesday, A Quarterly Journal of Literary & Visual Arts, summer
2017, and in Peregrine, The Literary Journal of Amherst Writers &
Artists. Visit nancychristophersonpoetry.com.