On its way, the moon drifted among
SPACE DEBRIS AND OTHER SILENT SPLINTERS
Olfactory memory is always the last to wilt
it’s just that this time,
we could smell the pyrite through our optic nerves.
Nautical smoke flares descend on the salt-cured flesh of Piraeus
smoke between our words
ash between our gestures;
mothers, and their mothers
loop genes, stories loop marigold necklaces, hymns loop time residue, echoes loop
dusk-choked memories of
an edge-less, loss-less mourning.
like silent splinters
in the universe’s strange flesh.
We could just about outline the edges of the sharp, glistening objects
through the hazy red;
space ships, satellites and what escaped them
drift in the graveyard orbit
her ‘womb of things to be and tomb of things that were’ *
forced to re-enter the atmosphere,
they perish into compressed gas.
settles deep into our porous brain matter
and we are somehow caught in a fantastic surge of glitter and rot.
* ‘The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction’ by Ursula Le Guin