Crying in the dark ...

(for Neil Armstrong, the astronaut and twice-child, 1930 to 2012)

Space –

I was never afraid of you.

It was Things in the dark,

not the dark place itself

that made me scream

to my mother, at 2,

full of wet hiss

like a rocket – blaring

life and blinded breath

against the space

(growing behind

my back).

*

What were you

thinking when I

came, in my pocket,

through you?

Were you thinking

I was small (I was)

and running on

a long-held breath?

Or thinking

I was a monster,

as all things

that come through the dark:

radio-voiced and

glass-faced, one-eyed

and slow-clawing

the breathless sky,

a mesmeric sloth?

*

I left only a print

of little shoes

in the dust –

never the deep concave

a comet would –

and a curious flag –

just some art

to make my

mother proud –

and went away.

Was I a ghost, space?

Bad or good?

I fell into my ocean,

cradled and screaming.

And lucky (I became):

how many

are ever born

twice into a world?

To cough out the plug

again and breathe?

Space – I will

come back into the dark

and scream no more.

Then

will you tell me?