The First Astronaut
Sept 22 2007


When the first rocket blasted-off
from Cape Canaveral —
a long thin pencil on a tendril of flame,
seagulls scattering and traffic stopped,
and men in white shirts and skinny ties
in concrete bunkers with their ears covered
by big prairie-boy hands
— they weren’t sure whether to count down
or up.

Because no one had ever blasted-off into space before.
The first astronaut,
bent over double
crammed into a hard metal capsule, like a monkey in a box
taking the ride of his life.
He closes his eyes
mouthing a little prayer he remembers from Sunday school.

He is looking up at clear blue sky
that will turn to glorious indigo
and then into mystery
— black
all the way out to infinity,
bangled with stars.
And underneath him, the engine shuddering
spitting-out forked tongues of flame,
and a white hot lake
of fire.