poem19 Sep 2021 04:33 pm
Skip Sorn
She is a pioneer. She cannot teleport off-world. She cannot communicate off-world. Transmission is blocked by spectral coronal flares by solar mass eruptions by sudden incapacitating sorrow. The planet is too near the star. She should have known. Now, she is isolated. Alone. She hides in Howe Caverns, six million year-old caves that plunge into blackness below tourist level. She must not be found. She’s keening- her distress is telepathic registering below consciousness in human females within 500 kilometers. It sets off an outbreak of ineffable sadness, resistant to SSRIs. Psychiatrists can’t fathom the widespread depression. Women lie down, weeping without warning. She too weeps without warning. Her tears are warm syrup unlike human dripping. Her hair is foliage, green-yellow, now wilting. Soon the darkness, the absence of sunlight will kill her. At her death, human females will not be despondent, will rise up uncaring and smile.
