Jason Fraley

This is Awkward

This is my fourth trip to space this year.  I keep forgetting my mission, which is to rescue God from a windowless, brilliant corridor.  We need more than echoes but less than song.  I blame the constant white flashes: the spacecraft, my suit, the moon, the swirling galaxies.  Everything beautiful is the color of erasure.  We have not gone out far enough.  Blue bruises pierce the Earth’s cloudy gauze.  The sun is not some nameless pinprick of a star.  I keep myself occupied with synonyms: ivory, ecru, alabaster, snowflake, cream.  The commander asks us to prepare for reentry.  I press bright buttons, initiate the protocol.  I pull a small package from my pocket.  I tear it open, and the pill floats behind a ductwork crevice.  The crew looks askance at me.  I should have stayed awake during training.  I thought returning was the worst-case scenario.