James King
Armstrong Air and Space Museum, Wapakoneta, Ohio
Like a reliquary in a space-age cathedral, Neil’s suit stands inside the glass, gold face of the helmet gazing blankly back. Leah, beside me, practically pious. An Ohioan herself, here is the man who did it—got as far as humanly possible from petrochemical and cornfields, came back to tell us what the moon smells like—gunpowder and ozone, apparently, that most forbidden, lethal perfume. Leah teases—You wanna try it on? I say I couldn’t be an astronaut even if I tried—my eyes don’t work, my moon at night an astigmatic cross, my Earth from space a jagged azure crown, and when they send you up there, it’s mainly to give you a look around. I did see the Earth from on high once, flying into Cleveland, huge tufts of steam from great power plants, facilities of the real life, rising like cotton from a torn seam. She says Well, you can pick me up when I get back. Light bounces off her body, pierces me like an arrow. I think I know now what it would be like to be the spaceman’s mother. Neil closes the door behind him; Mrs. Armstrong shakes her head as he trails soft silver all over the rug. Your suit is filthy, she says. Where have you been?
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James King is a poet from New Hampshire. His poems have appeared in The Shore, Bear Review, Exposition Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Variant Lit, and others. A recipient of the 2020 Academy of American Poets College Prize and a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he lives in Wilmington, North Carolina. Find him online at jamesedwardking.net or on Instagram @jamn_king.