Well I watched with all the others as you walked,

the woman less noticed,

the doctor and, as I hear, a daredevil,

striding through the antechamber in your spacewoman’s blue

toward a death and funeral that sea-kings would envy,

a ball of jellied flame across the sky and a bucketing plunge

down toward the ocean trailing carbon and glory

while everyone watching was wailing and moaning,

going out fast on a beautiful day

in a tremendous clap of thunder

 

But what I remember really

is how when walking toward the hatch

you looked back and to the side,

and seeing someone familiar you gave a little smile,

a back-slanting glance under the dark brows, what I remember is

the drift of your black hair and the small wave of your hand

held low at your side, what I remember is your face

lit for a moment with that expression

as old as being human: recognizing a friend

and bright with the pleasure of it