To The Astronaut: On Impact
       

I understand. I do. I used to lie back
flat against asphalt & take our moon

through binoculars—hands steady
as the dead's. I understand a planet is

its history of impact, what gets ripped
away & what gets left. The moon struck

from here flickers one brilliant sigh, one
small mouth stunned in the night, saying

nothing of two bodies about to collide.
Remember the way your legs dangled

over volcanic rock, the sun pressing
so heavy against the water we were

forced to bow? There's no prayer now.
Just histories that can only be told

given distance & time. Can't you see
from there—how a target arches

to meet the body cast into its moment
of shared light? I understand the evidence

is the catastrophe. To be defined. You
chortled. You snored. You chewed this sky.

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Copyright © 2016 Lisa Fay Coutley All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission