The Wind in His Face
Jan 19 2017


What they missed.

Even the astronauts 
who remained earthbound
in their hardened air-locked lab.
Roaming jagged lava-rock
in pneumatic ersatz suits,
behind fishbowl glass
reflecting blackly back
like Apollo astronauts.
Alone, on their blasted island habitat,
20 minutes after
the rest of planet earth.

Not the crash of surf.
Not the setting sun
in its own re-entry fire.
Not the smell of a ripe tomato
weighing down its branch,
picked warm
in the dog days of summer.

No,
it was the passing breeze, the feel of wind
they hungered for.
Something as simple
as the movement of air
you miss only when its gone.

Like when I turned away
as if the wind in my face
had blinded me.
Like when I seemed to cry
but said dust in my eye
had teared me up.

They drink recycled pee
breathe each other’s air,
share
their cramped simulacrum of space.
But what they long for 
is touch.

The freedom of wind 
tousling his hair, caressing his skin.
As light 
as a fingertip tracing
his naked arm.
And strong enough 
to hold him up
leaning hard against it.



It’s odd how poems come. I was out with the dogs, walking in the woods after dark, and for some reason thought about the recent National Geographic series Mars. Cleverly interweaving documentary with scripted drama, this was about the first manned exploration of our sister planet.

In particular, what came to mind was a bit about a biosphere-like Mars simulation high on the lava-rock of Hawaii. This long duration experiment was mostly to explore the human factors of isolation and communal living. The subjects were confined to this cramped sealed habitat. They could only leave in simulated space suits, walking outside like explorers on an alien planet. 

I also recalled reading or hearing -- somewhere else, I think -- about what at least one of these experimental subjects missed most. Surprisingly, this was it:  the freedom of feeling the wind in his face. 

I think it was then that the poem started to write itself as I walked. 

I’ve written before that I like to invoke the senses in my poetry; to make it more visceral than intellectual. And especially the more neglected senses, like touch and smell.  Because we are creatures of touch, and what he misses beautifully demonstrates this basic human need. I think, with this in mind, that the abrupt shift into first person in the 4th stanza is telling. There is a suggestion of something else gone, but the narrative is left open-ended. For me, that stanza calls back to the first:  the image of the man in the fishbowl helmet, invisible behind its reflecting glass. (When I wrote this, I had in mind those pictures of men on the moon:  a big glass visor with a black reflection of an American flag, or of the space-suited comrade taking the picture, but with no inkling of the man behind it. This image seems like the apotheosis of isolation and unknowability.) Ultimately, in the final stanza, touch expands from skin-on-skin, to being held, to feeling the emotional support of intimacy.