The balloon in the bell jar expanded when
the vacuum pump wheezed and gasped.
It was 9th or 10th grade,

and I was still very young.
And this man who was the only science
teacher was also a Baptist minister.

He was trying to show the class
how the void of space would tear us apart,
but then how many of us would ever have the chance

to leave all these layers of atmosphere?
He told me I was going to hell, and to me, that meant
being ripped apart by fire, and fire craves oxygen.

From that day forward, I knew, air is
for sinners. And angels live
in the void of space 

where demons like me
can only pray for
another fiery breath.
                        

Honestly. Flashing lights and sirens are never enough
when the clock is counting down and the boss is waiting.

Earthquake and fire are no excuse for missing
that deadline, like getting your rocks off,

your pebbles and boulders,
your slag and your precious gems.

Sometimes you have to punch the gas
as you fix your hair and apply your makeup in the mirror,

while two lanes over, a man drives on autopilot
with his tie hanging loose and his beard half shaved.

Street lights blur together,
solid lines of red, green, and yellow

ribbon over the shoulder, the median, the berm.
You’ve got to hold your breath at top speed.

Truly. You’ve got to swallow your soul
so it can’t be stolen. You’ve got to keep

one eye on the wheel
and one on the road ahead.

The world is too figurative to grasp at this speed.
If I reach out the window, I could catch your ghost.

Stay still.  I’ll be there
in no time at all.
                        

The neighbor’s peonies lower
their giant heads, paint the ground below
with heavy thoughts.

And, just like that,
I’ve made the flowers a symbol
of self, given them emotions

without knowing what they feel.
I don’t even know the neighbors—
the man, the woman, the boy

who will surely be grown
before he realizes it.
Iris blossoms wither

like old men and are gone
too soon, which just goes to show
I’m pondering the inevitable.

And I don’t know if I can handle that.
This afternoon, I watch a robin
gather grasses along the fence.

It must be time for a second brood.
I hope the first didn’t succumb
to the cold snap,

though that would explain
the sadness, these perennials still here
after a season of loss,

all this attempt at beauty
while the mourning dove sings.
Day or night, I never see

the family next door,
but I know they are there
by the position of cars

in their driveway, by the lawn
freshly mowed.  Or is it mown,
which sounds like suffering?