Elizabeth R., Contributor

Sometimes I wonder if

The stars will spit us out

As we have spit in the faces

Of our comrades, as if

They are our common foes.


We have barred our gates,

Our hearts, against each other

Solely to subsist separately,

And I worry that when

Our hands, in unison,

Claw at the crevices in the sky

The dome above us will become

Polished smooth to touch

And we will fall from

The heavens like rocks.


What if we have to leave someday?

Humanity ascendant with rockets

Built of recycling-too-late and

A ravaged wasteland ruins

Dying behind us.

What will the aliens do with us

When we are the aliens,

Docking on a distant shore

With nowhere to return,

Hoping for a better life?


They could shutter their ports,

Closing our window of opportunity

And condemning us to float

In the depths of space

Until we starve.

They could invite us to

Become their servile caste,

Patronized and reviled and

Little better off than before.

Or we could be welcomed

And appreciated, accepted

As an element, however small,

Of a greater, diverse,

Magnificent whole.


How fortuitous would that be!

Yet I am not so confidant.

We did not carve space

Even for our brethren,

So why should space

Make space for us?