by Diane LeBlanc
I make a pot of pea soup,
grating carrots as if life now
depends on shards of color
softening into a good meal.
I rub a pinch of woody thyme
between my fingers and thumb
until it’s fine enough to dissolve.
Four days ago, SpaceX launched
a wooden satellite, not much bigger than
a child’s block, aiming for the space station,
then earth’s orbit. Wear and tear will tell
whether or not wood can survive in space,
if trees can grow on the moon,
if timber will make nice houses on Mars.
I stir the soup to loosen the peas,
add broth and spinach, make it
my locus of hope until supper
when daylight’s gone and
my husband and I come to the table
to eat soup and talk.
The satellite is supposed to burst into flames
when it returns to earth’s atmosphere, and
like a cosmic campfire burn to ashes.
But leave no trace in space is cousin to believing
Yellowstone tourists who stay on the road
respect bison and keep everyone safe.
Nothing comforts tonight.
Not darkness,
not soup,
not even a satellite
hewn from magnolia wood
once a tree
lit with star-shaped flowers.
Diane LeBlanc is a writer, teacher, and book artist with roots in Vermont, Wyoming, and Minnesota. She is the author of The Feast Delayed (2021) and four poetry chapbooks. Poems and essays appear in Bellevue Literary Review, Cimarron Review, Mid-American Review, Southern Humanities Review, and Sweet Lit among others. Diane is a professor and writer in residence at St. Olaf College. Read more at www.dianeleblancwriter.com.
Emerge Literary Journal 