Two Poems

Apollo

When men first stepped onto the moon
in the stone black womb of cold space
among the lifeless rock, boulder and crevice
they found a human baby covered in dust.

Removing their gloves they knelt down in the stillness
(the vibrating moon groaned softness)
radios switched off despite houston’s pleas
they remained so for thirty minutes.

At the centre of the universe, in a tiny box
a piece of metal turns slowly on a thread
it reflects itself through an unstoppable reaction
but a chiming peal from it escapes through the void
like a stream of milk from a beating heart
riding urgent waves of electricity,
spilling through space at the speed of light
into our galaxy,
where condensed by gravity
it reaches us like holy breath:
the music of infinite emptiness (of the dark)
whispering, curdling in our ears.

Resuming contact with mission control
the astronauts collected rocks and dust
planted flags and posed for photographs
while the baby sank into the moon
beneath the prints of the astronauts’ white boots.


Knife fight

It’s no fun feeling
no fun,
you’re always starting
a knife fight.

I always wake up choking
a problem down,
pressed to my forehead,
the metal grip.

You were born to explode,
forever igniting, atoms splitting,
always reaching for something
inside your jacket.