Signs for Strangers

“Only a question can be trusted.”

This is a body

Now containing more than half

A century’s memories

Dancing and decomposing,

Changing partners, making room

For others, disappearing

In despite of the belief

Of mainstream cosmologists

That their calculations prove

Information’s never lost.

When men landed on the moon,

A six-year old boy

In an evangelical 

Family in New Jersey

That spent all other Sundays

On at least two services

Of hymns, prayers, and long sermons

In a white, cinderblock church

Sat all afternoon 

In front of a box

That flowed with shadows.

It was exciting to be 

Allowed to stay home from church,

Allowed to watch the TV.

It was overwhelmingly 

Boring. The shadows

Were blurry and made no sense,

All glare and pitch-black contrasts.

Men’s voices droned on and on.

The boy waited all day long.

This was important.

Something would happen,

Had to happen soon.

This body holds no

Memory of when

It was over, it happened.

Later memories

Saw the steps replayed 

Over and over again.

Maybe the boy that became 

This body had gone to bed,

Had fallen asleep

In front of the flickering.

Half a century later,

A motorcycle backfired

On a hairpin turn

In the regrown woods

Near the campsite of the man 

The boy had been, the exact

Anniversary,

To the synchronized minute,

UTC, of the landing.

The man looked up at the trees.

Half a century,

And now a couple of weeks.

Last night, the man dreamed

Two astronauts arguing

About nothing on the moon,

And, in his dream, thought,

As if it were an insight,

“That’s what makes humans unique.

It’s not where we go.

It’s the signs that get us there,

The signs we leave for strangers.

It’s the arguing.”

One of the astronauts turned

A faceless visor to him,

The earth’s reflection swimming

Into its center, gleaming.

Despite airlessness,

The astronaut spoke to him.

“If you enjoyed this poem, why

Not read?”