Reverence.

They shot three men and a woman into space,

and they went farther than anyone before,

snaking around the dark side of the moon.

And they named a crater after one of the guy’s

dead wife—Carroll.

It’s sweet.

It’s sweet.

I know it’s sweet,

because that’s what is said every time

it’s brought up on the news—heartwarming,

sweet, inspirational, and other synonyms.

But all I think of is how craters are made:

violence. Hunks of rock hurling through space,

smashing into the surface—not enough to burst

out of orbit, but enough to embed in the surface,

to forever scar and mar the back of the moon,

the side it hides from the earth, like keeping something

behind your back so your mom can’t see.

And that was the legacy of a dead spouse.