Ghost Station

We entered the abandoned space station. The second door of the lock slid open just before we reached it, then light flickered on.
It was a feeling of welcome and comfort, for a moment.
Then, the mission leader grabbed a handhold to stop his momentum and turned his head back us, slightly shaking: “I don’t remember them ever mentioning installing automated systems for that. You?”
Shit. He was right.
We were still trying to think of the best course of action when we heard a thin but steady voice.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just been such a long time.”
“Wha-”
A milky shadow moved into sight, translucent. The scheme of a middle-aged man.
“Welcome to my humble home, comrades. I started the heater, should be getting warm in a moment.” He gave us a ghostly grin, lopsided.
Finally, it dawned unto us, the grin familiar from photographs. The one cosmonaut who didn’t make it last time, fallen victim to a faulty EVA suit.
Well, we had seen weirder things on our missions. And a ghost in the space station sure seemed handy.

Cloud Cover

I cover myself in clouds
and disappear
beneath the surface of today,
slipping down into the shadowed sea,
finding silent caves within my skull
hollow, salt-dry and bone-tired
echoes of sea gulls
fading

I Am Thunder

The static makes my blood sing
I am thunder, I am thunder
— I see people set down their picknick blankets and I wonder:
do they ever feel this restless sting,
the pulse of tomorrow’s storm, whispering
I am thunder, I am thunder
I am alone in my inner gale, singled out by the reaction rushing into nerves long before the sun is gone, this wild and ancient thing pounding in my chest, my fingers, aching, but the loneliness of it all torn into oblivion again because
I am thunder, I am thunder
in a skin that is too small.

One Last Summer Before The War

One last summer before the war,
one last summer
of collecting memories,
of Ferris wheel rides at dusk
and birdsong at dawn,
of gentle sun in meadows,
and windy beach days,
one last summer
of inhaling beauty and nature;
one last summer
of taking all those pictures,
the polaroids we’ll share
on the dark stormy evenings,
hidden from heat and thirst
and floods and blood
in the days of war.