The first thing you must do
after the disaster passes is
check the integrity of your suit.
Count the seconds:
loss of consciousness in fifteen,
expiration in ninety-five,
but they say you can feel
the saliva on your tongue boil
and there is no burning, yet.

There is only
the quiet womb-dark of endless space,
and the bright eye of the sun
peering around Earth's breast
at you.

Listen to the faint crackle
of your ear-piece, somehow
still functioning, and the voice
of your man in Houston, saying,
Commander, can you hear me?
Say yes. Ask for your wife.
Ask for your daughter.
She's on her way, sir.
A calm voice cuts in:
Re-entry in three minutes, twenty seconds.
Listen to your breath and don't move.
Your Mother is pulling you into her arms.

Your man in Houston says,
Sir, we have your wife on the line.
Kelsey is here, too.

Listen to your wife; she says,
I love you. Say I love you,
and realize this time you mean it.
Listen to your tiny bright-eyed girl.
Don't choke. Don't choke.
I love you, Daddy, I'm scared.
Tell her not to be scared.
Tell her you're not scared.
Tell her something so
she doesn't hear the
caged screaming of your
heart in your chest.
Say Daddy loves you.
Daddy loves you.
Be a brave girl for Mommy.

Your man in Houston says,
Commander, I'm sorry about this.
Is there anything I can do you for?
Open your eyes and stare
in wonder at the bright world
beckoning you down and ask yourself
Why did I ever try to escape this?
Your man in Houston says,
Commander? Can you hear me?
Don't reply.
There are no more words.

Listen to the calm technician counting:
Re-entry in sixty seconds.
Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.
Fifty-seven.

There isn't time enough for fear.
Close your eyes. Smile.

Somewhere near Toronto,
a small boy makes a wish
on a shooting star.