In the movies, satellites in outer space sweep across

the exosphere of our planet, blink red, make sounds

like a truck backing up, a lie told by sound editors

since sound carries by vibrating air molecules, and

no air floats in space, so I guess this is my way of

breaking it to you I canceled my pioneering flight

to Mars. I would much rather scream into the void

on Earth, than a vacuum of empty ether in space,

and where would I put my beach glass collection?

Too many things I would miss. The flowering of

crabapple trees in Spring. The scent of rain, and

a green city park. Little things. Toothpaste spat

into a sink. Paying too much for a Maccciato.

The squish of sand and ocean foaming between

toes. Ordinary men and women, too. Not ones

with degrees in astrophysics who gladly squeeze

breakfast from a tube. Real people with real fears

who carry their anxieties like Sisyphus up the hill

then trudge down, only to do it again tomorrow.

Accidents, illness, pain, malfeasance, misfortune.

People with a fear of darkness, without actually

floating around a spaceship in it. People tethered

to the smallest, most ordinary of daily miracles:

a hummingbird’s whirring, a sunset lighting up

clouds the colour of cotton candy, the laughter

of two small children bouncing in a trampoline

in a neighbour’s yard. What might I say if I found

myself walking the red dust canyons, dry lake beds,

extinct volcanoes of Mars? If I found myself alone

on the summit of Olympus Mons, sixteen miles

above the planet, I would say Home. I miss home.