cold welding

If two pieces of the same metal touch

in space, they permanently bond.

Their atoms don’t know

how to be separate. Maybe

it’s myth, but I like the mystery

of not knowing. I like imagining

us as metals misunderstanding

your hands from mine,

where you end and I begin,

like a child’s tornado-crayon drawing.

I am not the first person to stare

at the night sky and feel

so marvelously small.

All those stars, all the exploring

astronauts have yet to do. Us, too.

Either way, I am certain

I could love you

the way a lunar rover loves a moon—

piecing apart your cracks and craters

until I have learned enough

to walk on you backwards, to fly

your rocks home to my people and say,

look! Look how wonderful.