The Home That Wasn’t

Jillian Spiridon
2 min readJul 22, 2021

Poetry

Gleams of light spill through

and drift across the atmosphere

as she winds her way through

errant space eternal.

Goddesses called down the heavens

once upon a very long, long time ago,

but now those days are gone to dust,

scattered across galaxies alight.

When she signed up for the mission,

she thought she would be gone

for a month, maybe two, or half-a-year —

but she is verging on six months among stars.

Each pinprick of light winking at her

reminds of days when streetlights

welcomed her home from the bus stop,

all the way down to her cheap apartment.

But now space-proof glass separates her

from that which would only kill her

if she broke past the barriers and tried

to touch the burning gas of constellations.

When she goes to sleep at night —

though really it is always night —

she dreams of ice cream and long walks,

sunlight instead of space-cold spaces.

It will only be another few months,

but time is strange off-planet,

away from other humans to touch,

no connections besides hazy feeds.

Tomorrow, she will imagine an earth

free from so much disaster that open space

feels like a future refuge, an escape,

because all she wants is a warm bed.

The satellite station whirls and hums,

settling into zero-gravity above the earth,

and someday soon she will be back

on a planet that’s a broken home — but it’s hers.

Originally published at https://vocal.media.

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