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We’ll know we’ve reached civilization
when our viewport shows nothing but bodies,
floating caskets with see-through glass windows,
helmetless corpses with bug-eyed heads twisted in agony
mummies wrapped in cloth, dried into skeletons
by thousands of years of floating in a vacuum
silver capsules filled with ashes
single digits identified only by engraved tags and rings.

Everybody, no matter which planet they live on
looks up at the sky and wants their corpse to reach the stars
never thinking
about the clogged obstacle course all those remains might create
for travelers
from across the universe.

 

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Maria Schrater during our annual Kickstarter.]



Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Big Muddy, The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle, and her published books include Walking Twin Cities, Music Theory for Dummies, Ugly Girl, and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy. She has been a featured presenter at Write On, Door County (WI), North Coast Redwoods Writers’ Conference (CA), and the Spirit Lake Poetry Series (MN). Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press) and I’m in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.).
Current Issue
18 Mar 2024

Strange Horizons
We are very happy to welcome Dante Luiz as a new fiction editor on the team! Dante is a Ignyte Award winning author, and has been with Strange Horizons working as an Art Director for the past several years. We’re stoked to bring him on to the fiction side and have him bring his wonderful insight and skill to the fiction team.
Day in and day out, the rough waters of the Pacific slam themselves against the protrusion of sandstone the locals refer to as Morro Rock. White streaks of bird shit bleed down the rock, a testament to the rare birds of prey that nest in its pocked face overlooking the bay.
in my defence, juggling biological and artificial, i tripped over my shoelace, and spilled my lungs empty of the innocence that was, before guilt.
the birds, / who carry with them / the many names of the dead
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