Painting by Bev Jackson
Living On Planet Nine
I've gone off path into a pit of sand,
stuck like a Mars rover.
My phone's battery
is drained, and I can't
send back images
of my predicament.My wheelchair
tilts at a 30 degree angle.
Slowly I could topple over,
if not braced
with a flying buttress.My face planted in sand,
how can I call out for help?
Where are the staff?
They come and go
like dust devils.This place is called by us
living here
Planet Nine,
a world I fear my son
has convinced himself
is hypothetical.My messages
more and more
disappear
before they reach him
—the way rain
dispatched from the higher
atmosphere sometimes
never touches
ground.I no longer hear from him.
Are there problems
with the grid,
the sun's solar flares
disrupting
communication
satellites?Old folks used to be dispatched
onto ice floes.
Now we're shipped
to Planet Nine.I've heard from others
at this facility that kids
often choose to live as far away
from their parents
as they can.Some sons they say
become comets,
streaking away
from the galaxy.I refuse to believe that
—or that the distance
between us is growing.I miss you, son.
Every day I check
my phone
for your voice—
a voice that apparently
may take years
to reach me.
