I’m wary of
those desert winds,
the temperatures that drop
as sudden as a last breath,
and I am sad that Ardu was stranded,
because it could have been any one of us
and Earth doesn’t need another widow.
Ardu’s the subject of discussion
in the common room of our dome.
Why didn’t the shuttle pick him up at the allotted time?
Why did no one hear his distress signals?
I leave the failures of the system
to those chattering voices.
A man’s blood frozen
in the vein,
suit cracking open like ostrich shell,
is too much information.
I’m far from any lingering babble.
My wife holo-calls.
Her face appears in a glittery mist.
Soft words pierce light years.
She loves me at the allotted time.
My distress signals are answered
before I even make them.