On Venus

All the excitement happens in the atmosphere. Sulfuric clouds, stingrays, school around the planet, terra firma beyond a bubble of heat. Air holds blue-green bays, evaporated oceans, a mirror reflecting the sun’s dots and dashes across meteors and stars, obscuring any continents below. What happens when a day is longer than a year? The two of us could be this same storm watering itself over and over, burning off and starting again before being consumed by the ground, unable to dissipate among the rubble. Let us fling ourselves on the slippery backs and forget ocean beds below. Flash, flash, we fly lightning beyond the peaks of Maxwell Montes. Breathe in—everything before, see the pocked surface, and never fall so far to touch the bottom pit. Our first or last “hello” might descend through atmosphere slowly, pressure crowding edges as letters push their tiny sounds close together. Sea-sky electricity hollers from cloud to cloud, each fin filled with conversation light. As land comes into view most solid things will break apart, implode from air stronger than heat or volcanoes, though craters wait with open mouths. We will be drops that begin again, storm on without finishing. Myth may come thick like mosquitoes, but the sky has nothing to do with the ground.