If Astronauts Could Speak, I Become Space Junk Inside Envelopes Sent To Jupiter For Editing
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Jo Engelman, Grade 10
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Poetry
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2018
It’s around 10pm,
I lay in the back seat of my father's car,
my seatbelt is dangling between my feet,
like a knotted woollen scarf, on a summer evening.
Reaching through the sunroof to hold the moon, just for a second.
Its craters are its centrepiece, the stars are the tablecloth,
at this Victorian dinner.
The moon is the chatty one,
I hear it reciting some physics formula I do not understand.
Flirting behind barred doors, we celebrate a future that never was met.
Me the astronaut and you the moon.
Watching your luminous nature fill the room.
Tip-toe into another lover's room.
You ask me,
who am I, if I am afraid?
Why am I sitting alone at this dinner-time party?