Astronauts are our young who gazed up, saw
Three sons burning
Inside the lunar module that never
Lifted from the pad, their atmosphere ignited
By a stripped silver wire–who saw
These nylon suited men imagining what it would be to fly
When fire flashed their mission to core
Components: breath, and a demand
To feel everything, a rising cabin temperature
With skyward view–who saw
And decided: to lose one’s form was a warmth
They must lift their faces to, the necessary
Pain of children.
Connor Holmes lives and writes in south Florida with his wife and two crazy dogs. He worked for several years as a crime reporter at his hometown daily newspaper before earning his MFA from the University of Tampa. You can connect with him on Facebook here.