My poem about seeing Sputnik when I was a little girl is up now on the Cider Press Review website. This is a very vivid memory for me even after all these years. We had a close-knit neighborhood where all the moms were also my mom and the other children seemed like my brothers and sisters. But as I grew, as all of us mature beyond childhood, events in my life and the world intervened. My friend lost his life even as mankind explored the universe beyond.
1957
Later than bedtime, we stand
in the unpaved road looking up.
Neighbors not sure what to believe
as we search fixed constellations
for a single traveling light. Satellite.
Sputnik. The men of war
know the truth of bombs
masquerading as a field,
a field of moonlight. Mothers
count children in the dark
as we play hiding games
when suddenly, a red-headed girl
squeals and points toward
a slow moving star. A feeling
unfolds beyond fear and at seven
I already know I will remember
this night. How Bryan Flynn
found me and raced me back to base.
Bryan whose draft number
would be low. Who loved his old dog
and could pitch faster
than any of the other boys.
He would lose his life
while men walked on the moon.
Have you seen Star Link?
Low and slow, a satellite train.
Using my cell phone I can know
anything. I type in Bryan Flynn
and get thousands of hits. None
of them him except the power
of name. I remember
my mother rubbing her bare arms
that October, telling me how this night
would outlive us. How everything
we need to know is written in the sky.