Tom Laichas
Thirty Distinct Damnations on the Moon
First. That the crater’s edge is steep. It’s an endless drop to its floor.
Second. That they taught you meditation before you came but heights still make you sick.
Third. That lunar dust eats spacesuit fabric like a plague of breathless moths.
Fourth. That you may knock all you want, there’s no one home.
Fifth. That your dog and cat would’ve died if you’d brought them.
Sixth. Your children too.
Seventh. That, if you import an atmosphere from Earth, the Moon will sigh it out.
Eighth. That from the Moon, you can see the home you’re sick for.
Ninth. That sound doesn’t carry without an atmosphere. You can’t hear yourself pray.
Tenth. That your bones are weak, your vision blurred, your ankles swollen.
Eleventh. That for the quarter million miles round your bed, yours is the only life.
Twelfth. That yours is a small room, the size of luggage. Every day, you hunch your back.
Thirteenth. That there are more stars in this sky than you’ve ever seen. Always the same ones.
Fourteenth. That even when you’re suited up, the sun can kill you.
Fifteenth. That you never bathe. Not enough water. You clean yourself but never feel clean.
Sixteenth. Why did you come here? What did you think you would become?
Seventeenth. That the moon awed you on the first day; that after a thousand days, it’s Barstow.
Eighteenth. That, from the surface of the moon, you can’t see the moon.
Nineteenth. That you walk the moon every day. You never thought you’d hate it but you do.
Twentieth. That you have no possessions of your own. You want possessions, more than ever.
Twenty-first. That the moon is a gray blunt planet.
Twenty-second. That you’re no hero, and you know it.
Twenty-third. That, looking up from Earth, the moon is there. But here? There is no here.
Twenty-fourth. That you know the truth: this is the last house on a dead-end street.
Twenty-fifth. That you cannot call it “The Moon.” It’s “The Hole.”
Twenty-sixth. That your media library, though infinite, leaves you restless and unhappy.
Twenty-seventh. That a friend calls from Mars. Says it’s just as bad. Your reply takes ten minutes to reach him; his reply to you, another ten. In one hour, each of you speaks three times. After a year of this, neither of you bother.
Twenty-eighth. That you dream in green and blue. Then the alarm rings. Again, monochrome.
Twenty-ninth. That you scratch a daily mark into the wall above your cot.
Thirtieth. That there are now three thousand marks. It’s the only art you make.
Tom Laichas is author of three books of poetry, most recently Three Hundred Streets of Venice California (FutureCycle Press, 2023). His latest work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Times, Plume, The Moth (Ireland), the Irish Times, BarBar, and elsewhere. He lives in Venice, California.
