Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue Two

Sandra S. McRae

all the way to just about there

Four in the morning and things missing from my bloodstream are clanging through my veins in a rowdy protest of longing. Outside it's no better — an all-night rager at the neighbor's: the endless rise and swell of cars along the highway below slick serpents hissing their discontent slithering along in angry pursuit of the missing. Higher up the drone of airplanes drilling through the night. They appear to be flying but they're just falling along the curve of the Earth homesick for her primal pull displacing air for the absent. Once there was an astronaut who fell in love with longing the endless quest for perfection. She put miles of achievement behind her feeding an emptiness that fueled her through the darkness and crashed headlong into madness. Even in space the thing that's missing weighs heavy on the heart. So satellites, like distant cries race along under the skin of night in search of connection decipherable contact with the invisible and anyone who's ever lost anything is awake with me tonight dragging our tin cups across the bars of our loss while the free and untethered continue barreling through the dark hoping to spill out into the light and weightlessness at last.