space cowboy revisited

a short note arrives with the setting sun,

steel your soul, space cowboy.

they take comfort knowing that you

know where the plants grow. down on

the lavender earth, she nurses her drink

as if you’re coming back. you sit up here,

waiting for the train to come. you know that

we are in a snow globe on the downstroke,

that the white flecks are the stars and the

glass of the universe is held in a child’s hand.

the snow will fall back down but that happens

long after we’re gone. there aren’t directions in

outer space, those’re a human creation.

that’s why cowboys can walk on the walls.

70% of cowboys were Black or Latino. the

john wayne heroes you read about were

fiction, as many things often are. drag your

cigarette and fold the smoke into the milky way.

our mother sits in church and when the lights

of the stained glass fall over her face, you can

see all of her colors and angles. shards pieced

together into a more perfect whole. our father

sits in the living room and, when you come

stumbling in,

space cowboy,

he reaches across his body, softly caresses

your face. deep well without a bucket. when

they first met, she left her jacket in his car so

he would have to find her again. she packs the

same jacket in a small traveling case and slips

out the door into the night, stealing across the

desert like a shadow of the planet herself.

he looks down from far above, sitting on

the lip of the moon, tormented eyes calm,

reflecting the starlight. the next time a

snow globe is at rest, someone will pop

the glass off and refill it with both sugar and

salt before shaking it up again. the final letter

arrives as she boards the train

and you prepare to ride away:

I hope peace comes to us

as easily as love once did.