If the moon was Europe, my father was an astronaut who died on his
way to the moon.
My father, the failed moonwalker, blinded by space. My father, the
Black cosmonaut, frenzied
by thirst. My father, who heard the voice of God, clear as the call to
prayer, suspended in that dark desert.
My father, who wore a spacesuit slashed by longing, spinning towards
the vast desolate.
On a night when the angels have drawn back their wings, you may
glimpse my father
hurtling through space, his body carried by gravity’s absence, blood
collecting in his head,
his tears pink, gelatinous clots, unable to fall.