Neil Armstrong Goes for a Walk
Uncle John’s airedale watches the moon
with me as we walk. The man up there
does not excite a dog’s sense of smell.
John doesn’t understand
how I freed myself from the tv.
This is more exciting than sex, he says.
A man just walked on the moon.
The moonlight outside lacks magic
for him. Meanwhile, every possibility
sparkles on its river of quantum waves.
My Son’s Space
My son wants to find a planet
hotter than ours, but cooling rapidly.
We will trade places with the goldilocks
aliens so each of us finds a just-right home.
This is how he solves problems—missile attacks,
the climate crisis, poverty. He invents solutions,
builds models, gives all the energy and love
he has to liquid possibilities of rescue.
Hearing I have lymphoma doesn’t dissolve his glittering
resolve. He sits, quiet. Then he says, I will find a cure.
Originally appeared in: Black Bough Poetry, 20 July 2019, Issue 2, Broadside 36
The Flea Market
Artists painting river stones
at a flea market table yielded
pet rocks as Apollo reached the moon.
Mine had the moon lander.
I carried that promise of technology
with me until I turned from space.
Now, washed by dust and light from
other galaxies, my smooth head reflects
a chemotherapy travelogue. I retune
to technopoly and drifting planets.
A slightly different version appeared in: Black Bough, 20 July 2019, Issue 2, Broadside 9
Bio
Poems and recordings ©2019 Michael Dickel.
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