“De proche en proche, votre science mettra notre espèce à l’abri…”
— J.-H. Rosny aîné (Joseph Henri Honoré Boex), Les Navigateurs de l’infini
Witness to a bloom of false jellies that alternate
smiley face Thank Yous and black Come Agains.
positives released to their new wild gyre.
Inland, a roughed-up stuffed
animal forgotten in ’83 Pizza Hut now as buried
as any body
even if the weather has been digging up graves.
float down washed out highways. A soft
against your leg says you have lost
of your surroundings and cannot go back.
What feels like
a small death is only a tolling carillon’s
A blister. A moment in the key of minor. The index
of our refraction
is negligible but enough for you to believe
we’re still evolving
or able to change even basic habits. Forgetting to
lock the front door,
or learning to forget. Our lifecycles
are hardly understood
in comparison to X — the variable we have
not yet discovered
but expect to listen to Chuck Berry.
through one another like finger traps
and will soon
turn 200 with minimal consequence.
Earth may one day buck us toward
the closest passable exo.
No matter, we’re heavy, require launching,
We have our time, if not the time
of others. Tonight,
we remain here, waterlogged with cured
Our memories revealed by salt and suspended
Some improvised, analog, carved into gold
Sit with me. The math of tonight’s half light,
plastics, renders us moderately more attractive,
which, in part,
keeps us breeding to extend the thoughts
we’ve been thinking.
To date, I’ve come to understand
like photos of themselves, like their pasts
at a distance. At a midpoint
Allowing one to consider that it could have
gone a different way.
And possibly did or will. You waking up
of waking down to the next forty years,
which is now
the past forty years. It’s been so long
since we visited
the moon, every archival photo looks taken
from a single road trip
we based our entire lives on.
I purchased a second-hand tin of old
and tried to understand them as Boex’s
But it’s too late. By the time you tell someone
at the harvest moon, it’s reduced, gone plain
as any other night.
Dani Couture is the author of three collections of poetry and the novel Algoma (Invisible Publishing). Sweet (Pedlar Press) was nominated for the Trillium Book Award for Poetry and won the ReLit Award. Her most recent collection of poetry is Yaw (Mansfield Press).