Sally Bliumis-Dunn


Like the old rockets

let go, one by one,

of their silver-black boosters,


until they are

just a small space capsule,

light enough and free


from the earth’s atmosphere –

I’m middle aged

and watch you fall

away from me, Father,


pale in your gray business suit,

looking a little old and tired.


I don’t remember

my hand in yours,

the two of us moving

towards anything –

a game of catch, the crest


of a hill. The genetic

link locked in our bodies

seemed always


absent from the room.

There was just too much space

between us. You were

sixty when I was born.


Out here in my own

middle age, you’re not even

wearing a spacesuit.