Martian Dawn

by Pamela J.  Jessen

Our ship will touch down at Martian dawn,

exhaust throwing gales of organ sand

into the thin atmosphere. We’ll cheer

once, briefly, then bend to our tasks

of securing the craft, transmitting data and images

twenty light minutes to an Earth hungry for Mars.

-

Month after boring month we’ve watched as Mars

grows closer, more substantial and realization dawns

that this view we observe is no mere image

constructed of computer-enhanced photos of sand

and rock. Mars swells before us and our tasks

feel impossible to carry out. The Captain cheers

-

us on and we other four absorb the cheer,

use it like ballast as we spiral down toward Mars.

As though we are extensions of the ship, we tend our tasks

and speak in hushed tones of what we’d see come dawn,

of the landing site chosen on a flattened spit of sand,

of the instruments ready to record each nanosecond of image

-

of the first humans so far from the home planet, images

that are sure to elicit cries of excitement and cheer

from those left behind. But only we five would explore the sands

and rocks and fissures of this new world, touch Mars

as no one had before. Moments now. We strap in as dawn

brightens the alien sky, absorbed by our tasks.

-

The engines are up to their task

of slowing the craft and orienting it for landing, recording images

of our descent for broadcast back on Earth of the dawn

of this new era. At touchdown we laugh, cry, cheer,

then ignore everything but our duty to quantify Mars –

to catalog its geography and climate, rocks and sand.

-

At last we stand in awkward pressure suits directly on the sands

of Mars. To the Captain has fallen the task

of speaking the first words to Earth from Planet Mars.

I do not envy him. His words will transform his image

from explorer to hero, too important to the home crowds cheering

to ever let wander the far spaces again or witness another alien dawn.

-

Wind erases our footprints from the Martian sand. Our tasks

wait as we sear Mars into our memories, burn its image

into our minds. Do they cheer at home? Can they see this dawn?

About the Author

Pamela is from Colorado and has been writing poetry and short fiction for quite a few years. Her poetry has appeared most recently in Absent Willow Review and Snakeskin Poetry Webzine. Short fiction has appeared in the anthology Women Who Run with the Werewolves, Cemetery Dance, The Horror Show and Twilight Zone Magazine.

©2009 Pamela J. Jessen