Where would an astronaut
park her space ship?
Considering she has pushed
her bowling ball
in anticipation of its collision,
and life forms gather
to hear Jailhouse Rock,
the void is not completely
empty. She is suspended
with her back to an earth
that won’t listen. Atoms,
she thinks, appear as light,
so no wonder Elvis is still alive.
We used the word “gun”
over and over until
it became “love.”
This field is easily traversed
because sandwiches disappear
at each asteroid. For it is spring
in California, and the sun
is burning a woman’s shoulders.
Perhaps when one begins
to barrel toward the planet,
she will think less important
things aloud; she will find
a parking meteor.

—

Andie Francis holds an MFA in poetry from The University of Arizona. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Cimarron Review, CutBank, Fjords Review, and Terrain. Her chapbook, I Am Trying to Show You My Matchbook Collection, is forthcoming (CutBank, 2015).