The Mechanical Siren

                                         “Stare at the faintest star, Earthling, and think  
                                                                                        how heavy your limbs”—Salo 

Be they missiles or flares  
our heads orbiting needles 
& pins, so sunspot afflicted, I swear 
I could smell the ozone on your breath.  
On gimbals, I keep an eye swiveled  
on the spot I know you’ll never  
reappear again. I was programmed  
to dilly-dally a garden of human  
statues, breed daisies taller than 
skyscrapers, but it was I who called you  
friend. & I saw him, Skip, the maker  
of our makers, all rhubarb pie, midwestern  
parochial. From up here, I’d say, I rather  
liked him, even as the fictions of his life  
found the nons—A mothership grieves  
for 12 years, finally plunges herself  
into a polar storm. Little voids dream 
of little suns, & I feel time’s friction— 
A control room falling silent  
in the delay of the radio signal,  
as Huygens descends & I begin  
to tear myself apart.