Can You Cry in Space

 
Once you venture into the jar      
there's no place left to go      
as planets recede into dark matter.

Light years close in on me.
Every vein restricts, the heart
beats backwards, hair snaking

choking, floating beads of tears
quivering in the vacuum
reflected in visor and iris,

as eyes bulge and bleed,
turning to ruby gems,
sharp-angled

threading with my tears,
coiling around my neck and hands,
trying to fend them off.

Am I in a clinical waiting room
in a hell adrift, which has already
seen and been the death of me.

Through a portal, solar flares
rotating as the capsule
slowly tumbles, baseless.

As horizons slip away,
the only sound left:
the broken static from Houston.