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
