Krikalev looks out a window of Mir and wonders
Cosmonaut or clairvoyant of the cosmos:
Your observation deck is a tarot pack.
When you look out at the dead of space,
what would you consider the Minor Arcana?
The stars, those Seals of Solomon
sown on the puffed-out constellations’ chests,
act as pentacles. Those magical orbiting objects
imply how there might be life after death.
Galaxies are chalices, which at a distance
look like plastic see-through disposable cups
filled with a radiant range of celestial pale ales.
When they collide, it’s like God playing a game of flip-cup.
Space debris, meteor showers, and Saturn’s rings
act like batons: those heavenly baseball bats
swinging out of a strike zone only the creator can call.
How ashes might go to ashes, but Mir to space dust.
However, it’s the silent swords that keep you sleepless:
The constant malfunctions, your distant wife, the USSR
breaking into fifteen unequal fragments. Each proving
the more things change, the more they stay the same.
