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

past imagination.

 

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.

Something trending:

#PlanetSoFar

Uber

Drake

 

Make you mononymous, female:

Marilyn

Oprah

Adele

 

Or formal, with title,

honorifics for our stellar stone:

King Orb

Lady Rondure

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

at all?