"Untethered" by Raziya Wang

Untethered

The comms are down
and his spacesuit begins
to cleave at the seam.
He is most afraid of how
his matter doesn’t matter,
how soon he will be
atomic smithereens.
He wants to rip off
the space helmet,
choose the moment
of his own annihilation,
but it’s too late.

The first neuron died
after a gin and tonic
and before the BBC news.
The branches of its dendrites
like the frayed edge of a cable
that once tethered him
to the mothership.

His wife’s words still arrived
in the speaker of his helmet
Did you forget to pay the electric?
And his response traveled
the built-in microphone
Of course I paid it!
He smiled at her through
the polycarbonate face shield.

Then, the nylon layers grew leaden
and he struggled to lift his arms.
A crescent earth still glowed
beneath his white boots
but he could see his wife
peering out a ringed window,
her brow gathered in a pleat.

Now, ochre space dust rims
his face shield. He can just
make out the enormous void,
the indifference of nothingness.
The oxygen tank cedes
a sigh into his helmet.

He can still hear his wife:
You can bathe him after the feed
but the microphone has cut out
and she can’t hear him:
I’m still here
I’m still here
I’m still here.

Raziya wang

Raziya Wang is an Indian-American woman and part of the third generation of her family to be born in East Africa. She completed her undergraduate degree in English at Princeton University and then pursued her medical degree and training as a psychiatrist. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay area, where she practices psychiatry, writes, and lives with her husband, two daughters, and an orange cat. This is her debut poetry publication.

Headshot: Charles Wang

Photo Credit: Staff