Voyager Golden Record
Joshua Ruffin


Tucking a stray
hair behind your ear doesn’t

make it any less real.
More so: a seasonally

early thaw, political
cartoon of a bull

moose drinking tea. A topic
of conversation violently

there, ignored.


Ours is a planet whose only
name will be a letter

strange to us. With time

we would understand
that scattering of lye,

that malarial preacher singing.
We would understand the wall of light.