You, An Apocalypse Survivor, Lie in the Grass to Watch a Comet


The last time your optic nerve received this,
the induced glow of this passing object,
your lips newly reborn by their first kiss,
was the very night you woke the prospect
of sharing your body with another.
Your body—older too now, bearing scars
and consolations—regards its lover’s
with love and understanding from afar,
as it does all the others now through time.
Two traversals of a dark, vacant rock.
How many years since you’ve been touched; eight? Nine?
Since your skin felt skin uncontrolled, with shock.
But for comets, there are no surprise turns—
only birth, arc, spectacle, and return.

Gordon Smith