Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Tom Swift

Tom Swift

I have a minor crush on Saturn’s moons. Callisto,
Io,  and Titan. The rent is too high. I read once
about a boy inventor who built rocketships. Dark
forces, mysterious agents, always conspired  
against him. Leaving the planet for the vacuum
of space was an easy decision. Turn the pages.
The first time you are hurt in love you discover
the body is a spacesuit with a lifetime supply
of oxygen. Floating untethered leaves you gasping
for air. Come back to me, you say. Those words
bleed through to the suit’s interior where you
feel trapped. Try to make it to the ship's bridge.
I built model rockets as a kid. Launched them
from a yellow field. I never intended to vacate
this world. NASA says they have found exoplanets
in outer systems that can support life. Still, no
nude beaches in space. No Comic-Cons, fois gras
or walk-in clinics either. As you get older, you feel
the pull of gravity more. Dreams less. On the way
home from school one day, you notice you are being
followed. Your father is a brilliant scientist. Why
has he been kidnapped? Taken to a secret moon base?
You head for a launch pad. Your rocket is waiting.

By Chris Banks

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