There is no more left to write about
since I fell away from the world
I don’t mean existentially —
like a balloon, the globe escaped
and drifted into the star-pricked dark
or perhaps it was I, filled with
the good air of hopefulness,
tied tightly by a mother’s hand.
Among the satellites, I was alone
cosying up to space debris, cartons
of fast-food left by astronauts,
the Earth glowing gently beside me,
wrapped like an invalid in cotton wool.
I was told it would be dangerous
but the air had already been used up
in the ongoing political debate
and the chill I found refreshing
after the seas turned to bath water.
I wouldn’t say the vacuum abhorred me,
though I felt its persistent tug.
Something is to be said for drifting
after a lifetime spent believing in gravity.
Sometimes I miss the small-scale things
here with the Milky Way behind me,
but even if I wanted to now,
I could not pull it all back.