Most days, reading or watching the news makes my heart ache. This week, hearing about the quiet planet chillin’ at the edge of our solar system, took me to a different kind of dark place — the beautiful mystery of space.
Dubbing Planet 9
We can’t see you, shadow planet,
but we know you’re there.
This is more than faith.
More than wishes made
on all the shining stars.
(Maybe it’s your light, so bright,
that we’ll see tonight —
forgive us our mistake).
You can’t hide forever,
even floating far
We’ve got your tracks, elusive giant.
You Bigfoot in space,
and we’re excited, tittering,
because we love to dub.
This is our time, baby.
Our chance to claim the cosmos.
No more stuffy Roman gods,
no more démodé Greek deities.
You need a now name.
Make you mononymous, female:
Or formal, with title,
honorifics for our stellar stone:
Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack
(Way out in black, black, black).
A century from now,
if you’re spotted, snapped, shown
to all the world, will we know better
how to name?
Is something ineffable until it’s seen?
What new words will have sprung from
our multilingual human tongue?
A millennium from now, if humanity remains,
curious, searching, able
to touch your primordial face,
will we know you then?
Will we be any closer to understanding
why you’re there, why we’re here,
why anything is