Art By Johanna Povirk-Znoy


Curiosity (LI)

    We are sending greetings in the Hungarian
    language to all peace-loving creatures on the
    Universe. – Hungarian Greeting on the
    Golden Record

Come jazz sax with me. Come peace at home
with me. I want the incidentals of your last
car-wreck, and if you didn’t have one, I want
the lie you’ll tell the insurance company my

heart employs. I want to talk about my heart
and mean space, mean Neptune, mean
Andromeda, mean gravity gave a shit once
and always more. Come bass line with me.

Come 90s rock with me. Come Electric Slide
with me. To all the peace-loving creatures of
the Universe, we got nothing. A whole bunch
of it. And pickles. A cultural delicacy, no

matter the working definition of delicate,
of which, culturally, we do not agree. Come
space with me. Come voyage with me. I’ll
Peter Pan and you green-legging, you Wendy,

you second-star, and I’ll straight-forward til
occultation completes itself, and where we
land, the feel of it in our ankles, we’ll call that
Mars, the surface of a handmaiden goddess.

Come lose your shit with me. I’ve got all our
accoutrements in a basket, though my basket’s
the size of two closed, befreckled man’s hands.
I’m sure you understand. When I rang

yesterday, I told you about my tooth, how it
woke up to wake me up in the middle of my
night. This is what you do when separation
anxiety depends on an agreed-upon distance

apart. Come universal with me, come occult.
Come pretend you have a general interest in
physics of the future, and I’ll pretend I
invented my voice and used it only for you in

the hours before my morning runs. Truth is:
I want to love Hungary tonight, and make
them some grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato
soup, draw some blueprints up for a decent

escape path in case of another bad land war.
But not that, too. What I want is for
something to come across and say Okay,
because space makes sense, the way fireflies

don’t and ropeswings do, the way physics will
if you let it dissipate enough. To be clear: I do
not care about Mars, though I know I should,
and I will not call my mother because

she’s like Mars, in that, we all have a concept
of it we do not wish to reach out towards
fully. Someone should write more about
pigeons, about the noticeable exhaustion of

old guitar strings, about monster truck rallies
gone majestically right, about snow clowns,
shock tops, brutal disassociate devices
employed by rival lovers seeking similar

outcomes. Someone should write about those
first thirty seconds when you realize that what
you wanted will not come your way, and then
the next two minutes when you realize that

what you wanted was available and that you
had it: the good glove, a garden bit of basil,
tickets in a pocket, already torn in half, one
smelling like that French scent you adore.