Every Friday night we feature a short story, essay, personal narrative, poem,
spoken word, or short film for your enjoyment.
Tonight’s poem is from Carol L. Gloor
We launched her almost forty years ago
with pictures of us: naked, hands raised
in the universal greeting hello.
She carried a golden disk etched with
Beethoven’s 5th, No Satisfaction, tones of didgeridoos,
with voices saying hi in Swahili, Chinese, French.
She carried with her a map marking
where we come from, all nine planets,
an arrow shot from the third one out.
We launched her to slingshot
around Mars, Neptune, Uranus. For billions of miles
she sent back pictures of exploding light.
We know now she’s left our small system,
bombarded by strange particles, a human
artifice drifting through dark infinity, bearing the real message:
We are lonely.
Carol Gloor is an ancient woman living on the shores of the Mississippi River in far northwest Illinois. She’s been published in many journals (most recently The Kerf and Riverrun.), and her chapbook, Assisted Living, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013. She tries to tell the truth, and as Emily Dickinson said, she tells it slant.