Looking back, I should’ve been
an astronaut: brave, weightless
yet still attached to the ground,
the balance that would answer
all the Earth lessons I’m learning.
Above all else, astronauts
reached the sky’s kindest soul,
did more than look at the Moon.
They didn’t do it on their own, but
no one else crossed the distance.
They have the joy of being
surrounded by expanding nothingness
while being able to kiss their fingers
to their palms and see the Earth
fit into a small hole. They can hold
Everything. I don’t have many things
to hold and it still all spills between
my fingers like shattered space rocks,
dying comets that travel the distance
between shaky hands and dirt graves.
I wonder if it’s too late,
I wonder if it’d be irresponsible to try
and hold “I should be an astronaut.”
I wonder if the Moon is waiting
Wallace Truesdale II (he/him) is a writer based out of the U.S. East Coast. He has a BA in journalism and media studies from Rutgers School of Communication and Information. He was a finalist for his poem "The Seed of Talent" in Press 53's 2023 Prime Number Magazine Award for Poetry. When not writing, he's reading, playing games, and ruining his teeth with sweets.
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