Mike Dockins


When I answered my father,
“A ball of ice, dust, and gas
orbiting the sun elliptically,”
he was most my father then—

he 40, me 9 and momentarily
hooked at perigee: he knew
I was close but that I’d swing
miles away, only to swing back.

Tiring. If I must be engineered
this way, let me smash into
the Earth. Let the staggering glow
of impact be my apology.