It was a golden record aboard the Voyager

destined to travel for forty thousand years.

We included the sound of thunder, greetings

spanning fifty-five languages, and the humming

of birds. Photos of sprinters with Borzov in the lead.

Sand dunes. Snowflake over the Sequoia. Jupiter

as round as a grape. I remember the sweetness

of purple that broke on my tongue tasting this

gem I took from my grandfather’s palm. I remember

weaving through traffic being carried in his bicycle

basket. I remember phone calls at noon asking me

what’s for lunch and if I did good today. When I

gently kissed his forehead before he finally departed

I wondered if across the cosmos he will be received

with tenderness the way the sacrum and coccyx held

the rest of him like a bride would a bouquet. What

can I offer the yawning black sea of stars in exchange

for safe passage. Shall I describe how his favourite

Cyd Charisse is a white petal who danced under

the soft-lit lamps of Central Park. Shall I say that

in my desk drawer lived old postcards I sent to myself

saying there’s space for you here. When they registered

the brain waves of young Ann Druyan for the disk

that would define the world they found foremost

in her mind was love. When the last gasp left his body

transforming him into a vessel for the long journey

what did I know thinking in an entire galaxy of words

I can plead come back come back to the waiting universe