There’s not a lot of competition for the title.
All I had to do was lay down
and let the orange dust gather on top of me.
I turned my head towards Deimos,
wondering if there was a rabbit on it
like the moon back home.
It’s hard to see Deimos from here,
not the least because of all the dust covering my eyes.
Some dust is starting to irritate the cuts
across my cheeks, but I can’t be bothered
to scratch them with my gloved hand.
Plus, I’d probably cut my hand
if I brush the shattered visor carelessly.
It’d be best to laze here, rather than worry
about the irritation or depleting oxygen.
If anyone is to find me before I’m buried
underneath the next dust storm,
they’ll see my splayed figure and
think about how easy it was for me
to fall asleep to the aeolian tones of Mars.
This planet was named after a god of war,
but I’ve never felt more at peace laying
on his bedrock trying to see how many
of the stars in his evening sky I could
name off the top of my head, if I could
remember much of anything now.
Perhaps they’ll come to me if I let myself
dream, but I might be too lazy to do that
when all I can think about is how slowly
my last breath is.
Title comes from a riff from the Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode Santa Claus Conquers The Martians.
Alex Carrigan (he/him) is a Pushcart-nominated editor, poet, and critic from Alexandria, VA. He is the author of Now Let’s Get Brunch (Querencia Press, 2023) and May All Our Pain Be Champagne (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). He has appeared in SoFloPoJo, Cotton Xenomorph, Bullshit Lit, and more. Visit carriganak.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @carriganak for more info.