The First Date on Mars

A true story

I made the mistake of being myself.

Nervous.  Withdrawn.  Still.  Alone.

 

Nervous as a black sheep being buzzed for the first time.

Withdrawn as medication: 1,000mg of nausea.

 

Still as the Colossus of Rhodes, minus the selfie.

Alone, as I look up at Earth & grow potatoes.

 

A beautiful woman is in my arms for the taking.

Gentle.  Tall.  Beautiful.  OCD’d.

 

Gentle as velvet angel wings pinned on astronauts.

Tall as a naked red sandstorm, with thighs unhinged.

 

Beautiful as the invention of literature.

OCD’d: the way oxygen coddles diaries for a kiss.

 

Was it the manned mission that made my knees weak?

Was it her mafia, car salesman cousin from Brooklyn

 

Who said, “Take good care of her, or else"!”

Was it her being drunk on shots & pills before I rolled up?

Maybe it was all of the above.  Or maybe it was the guilt.

Guilt’s guilt.  Ship sunk guilt.  Shell shocked guilt.  I’m dumb

 

Guilt.  Pondering the question: is this the woman

I’m going to leave my wife for?  Is this the woman

 

I’m going to sell the cars & the house, switch jobs

& start over, a few years shy of 40?

 

I scan the movie theater & all I see

Is red chalked desert sand.

 

I’ve been stranded here for 561 sols

& all I want to do is go home.