What a way to come home,
To return from the serenity of space.
Astronaut action figures crammed into a tin can,
Smell of sweat in the air,
Flames flaring around the hatch,
Gravity grabbing at your ass
From below, pulling you home,
Zombie hands
Dragging you down
Into the ground
Faster than the speed of sound
As black turns slowly to blue and –
With a cracked-twig snap the parachute blooms
Above you – a beautiful rose of rope
And snow-white cloth, lowering you
To the saffron-hued Steppes far below,
And now falling through a halo of helicopters,
Swapping nervous “We made it this far!”
Smiles with your fire-riding friends
Before the deafening bang of the braking
Rockets – scheduled but still a sphincter-
Tightening surprise – heralds your return
To Terra Firma –
The SLAM! into the ground is like
A tsunami of pain, a sickening ripple
Of “Oompff!” rolling up through
Your body from below, shaking your
Micro-gravity-thinned twiggy bones
Like sticks in a paper bag before you sag
Sideways, straps cutting into your heaving
Chest like cheese-wires –
A blinding burst of blue above!
And you look up, blinking, into
A tiny circle of sky, white clouds
Drifting by, drifting in and out of view,
A miniature Earth right there above your head
Until strangers’ faces loom over you,
Blotting out the heavens with their
Grins, their teary eyes singing
“”You’re back! Welcome home!” –
Hauled out of your padded couch,
Manhandled down the capsule’s charred
Side, boots slipping and skidding on the flakes
Of paint the dragon breath of re-entry
Burned away before you’re carried away
And dropped onto what looks suspiciously
Like a cheap camping chair,
Barely strong enough to take the weight
Of your sweat-stained suit and all the expectations
Piled upon you before you fled,
Before you put your helmet on and left
The Earth and all its woes behind.
You were gone just for a while,
But long enough to know that the saying is true,
Home is where the heart is – and your heart
Isn’t here any more, beneath the clouds,
Beneath the sky; it’s up there, above all this,
Above the chaos of Kardashians and clowns,
Above the lying politicians and bloodstained ground…
Up there – in that maze of pressurised tubes
And brightly-coloured flying robot cubes;
Where laptops cling like bats to every ceiling,
Wall and floor and dawn breaks a dozen times a day;
Where gravity is just a word,
And shooting stars fall beneath your feet,
That’s where you should be –
“I know, it’s good to be home”, a woman smiles,
Kneeling down by your side,
Thinking she knows why you’re crying
As you gaze past her face at the sky…
© Stuart Atkinson 2012
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