My spaceship has left
this earth,
its frame evaporated
or buried,
leaving me
no way home.

I find a map
creased and faded,
a broken compass
in foreign tongue;
I don’t know how to
read the stars.

My ship of space
and time has left
this earth
its form gave way
to light waves
and dust.

I find trinkets on its
launch pad,
strings and beads and
books;
one hour becomes an eon,
one step, a mile.

My mothership has left
this earth,
no carburetor nor
navigation system
to be found,

Contents of its journey
strewn about,
as if its jaunt in outerspace
were temporary,
for old times’ sake.

My mother has left
this earth,
the vessel that brought me
from the other side,
has vanished, and left me

stranded on this patch
of earth
with just her books, her map,
but no compass to find
her path.

I build a new mothership
(we always do),
my vessel changed the day
she died;
she left the steering wheel,
said, “Here, you drive.”

I find bits and pieces from
her ship to build my own,
but still I rummage
in the debris
that I once called home.

Copyright 2023 © Ruth Wiseman