1969

*2009 marked the 40th anniversary of the first man on the moon. This poem was my tribute to that milestone. I hear their voices all of them calling from across years like so many shooting stars slipping in on 8millimeter film the edges brown burnt from flying too close to the bulb to the sun with Icarus in a galaxy of milk I hear them in the whisper of brushing leaves sand sifting in the dunes rolling in the wake of a sleeping bear giggle of the girl I used to be toes in the surf in the great saltless sea I pick up a piece of smooth shale see it skip like the man on the moon the black and white picture lined with static despite rabbit ears and foil and all of us holding hands skipping over generations the gap forgotten the hippies and Marine brush-cut men and boys and women in kerchiefs and me a tow-headed little girl in thrall to a TV with bad reception skipping over images like a needle across vinyl the record warped from a flood of great saltless tears when heaven wept and I slept dreaming dreams of Martian sand