
[“We regret to inform…”]
They tell me she went striding
In the uplands of Tharsis
Alone, in her borrowed gadgetry.
There was a storm.
(I did not know Mars had storms.)
And somewhere in the red, red dust —
Like a cocoon, outgrown.
She disappeared.
Later, they found her suit.
Like an empty tomb.
I escape the soundbites, read no headlines,
Stop answering my phone.
In the anchorhold of my solitude
I study her postcards —
Search for clues, secrets, whisperings
Footprints in the red, red dust.
I finish the jam, wash out the jar.
Three pennies, a dime and a quarter so far.
—- C.S.E. Cooney, from poem Postcards From Mars
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