Station Seven

There is no ballet on the moon.

There is the LUN-ORE base,

The appalling bolted orange chairs in the lunch room,

And the corporate mission.



The employees bicker, complain of minor ailments, and sometimes sleep together,

But their hearts have become like empty plastic bottles,

On their sides,

Gaping.

They contain no ships, but their dreams do,

Sinking in the ether.



Some of the craters make natural theaters,

But they lie white and vacant,

Like dead faces,

Beneath the blue-in-black of earth rise.



One of the floor workers wanders outside,

Past the caution signs and air locks.

She is like a split seed,

Sending a yellow-green shoot out through the blind dark.

She unscrews her helmet,

Shakes out her hair.

The environment here is too thin to live in--

Her skin tingles.

Her heart constricts.

It is like a first kiss.



There is no ballet on the moon,

But there is someone,

Someone out there,

Dancing in the dust.

In this place, there is no real joy, no satisfying connection, just shifts beginning and ending,

Skin going pale,

Vending machines being brought in on transports.



For a moment,

Work is abandoned--

Everyone is looking out through the double windows.

"Look at her," they whisper to each other, fingers splayed at perfect intervals in front of them.



Outside, the woman knows she is beyond the gray border of good sense,

That she is doomed,

But she has her audience at last.

She is beautiful,

She is art,

And rips through them instantly and irreparably

Like a harpoon

Or a gunshot.

___________