by Emily Hockaday
When the Sun rises over Earth,
astronauts on the space station
report a sudden falling sensation. This
is the vertigo I feel, sleep deprived,
laying you in the crib after a late-night feeding.
It is sudden: I am miles in the air. I thought
I knew what was beneath my feet. I thought
I understood the way years move. I didn’t know
anything. The Sun is coming up, and I’m not
where I thought I was. It’s possible I’ll never
ground myself. You stir in the crib and pull tufts
of soft hair, and it soothes you. Sometimes
you will be all you have. Sometimes you will float
in the vacuum of time or space, and you
will only have yourself for soothing.
Emily Hockaday is the author of In a Body (Harbor Editions 2023), Naming the Ghost (Cornerstone Press 2022), and six chapbooks. She is a De Groot Foundation Writer of Note and a Café Royal Cultural Foundation, NY City Artist Corps, and NYFA Queens Art Fund recipient. Her poems have appeared in anthologies and literary journals in print and online, including Electric Literature, the North American Review, and Poets of Queens. She is the editor of Heartbeat of the Universe (Interstellar Flight Press 2024). Emily writes about ecology, parenthood, the urban environment, and chronic illness. She can be found online at www.emilyhockaday.com and @E_Hockaday.
Emerge Literary Journal 