Cosmonauts Get Thirsty.
by james bezerra
Cosmonauts get thirsty.
Infinite cloak of night
across their seconds,
minutes, miles, light years,
lives.
Cosmonauts get thirsty.
Slingshot out past Moon’s silent gravity well
8 months on
to Mars. No one brought
a flask.
Cosmonauts get thirsty.
Boredom gets heavy. Inner monologues get nasty.
No bed in months; instead
sleeping pod on clockwork curve
of spacecraft ceiling.
Cosmonauts get thirsty,
hurtling silently,
swiftly, un-return-ably
to alien red dot on
the dry black edge of infinity.
.
.
.
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