The Astronaut's Wife Waits for the Storm

The radio crackles with static—

his voice breaking through

like a ship through atmosphere.

*"Another week,"* he says,

and the line goes dead.

She pretends not to count.

(She counts.)

The neighbors whisper

about the loneliness of orbit,

how metal creaks in the vacuum,

how a man might forget

the weight of a hand in his.

She tends her garden violently,

pulling weeds like she’s dragging him home

by the roots.

Tonight, lightning stitches the sky.

She stands barefoot in the yard,

letting the rain unmake her—

this water that has touched oceans,

clouds, his sweat on other continents—

now finding her upturned face.

Somewhere above the stratosphere,

his fingers press against a porthole.

Somewhere below,

her palms press back.

Love is not measured in miles,

but in the terrible patience

of things that grow

toward absent light.