by matt ronquillo
I’ve spent my whole life building a vehicle to launch myself into space with,
but I’ll probably flame out,
crashing into river rocks, grating into gravel with a serrated thunder clap,
spitting a thirty-two-batch enamel coated bullet tooth parade.
End up a corpse in someone’s drinking water.
I wonder if they’ll feel my hollow pull
when my heart finally explodes.
If so, please ask them how I taste
and to beam the answer out into space
(by way of messenger pigeons).
I’ll make it out there one day.
Trek around some planet with insert-amount-of-multi-jointed limbs
and call for those birds
with the neon colors from my magnetic frontal lobe.
They’ll break formation, fly in a halo overhead.
Cutting skyline with bladed eyes,
I’ll hear all about what scared me dead
(before the actual impact took place)
in short, audible bursts
from each individual coo of the pigeon collective.