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      June 7, 2013The Astronaut Explains Divorce to MeAsh Bowen

      Your father’s like a far-flung rocket, a G-force orbiter
      funneling through the stratosphere. Each day
      he screens the perimeter of our atmosphere
      to keep us safe from ray guns
      aimed from outer space, leaves us
      notes he’s written with his vapor trails.
      But at night, the frequency
      of your grief keeps him homing through
      our house. He meets your mother glowing
      in her latest wedding gown, her hand heavy
      with the bloom of stars I’ve laid upon her finger.
      The gentle thing’s to leave your father to the memory
      of the spheres. Lonely but bobbing in his armor,
      nothing can hurt his heart up there.

      from #38 - Winter 2012

      Ash Bowen

      “When this poem (and others like it in my manuscript) came pouring out of my pen, I was surprised as anyone that I was writing what my poetry friends have dubbed ‘science fiction poetry.’ But here I am, showing up in Rattle, with the controls set for the sun and a behemoth of a Wookie gargling directives at me to hit the hyperdrive.”

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