Find me right here and now, scholar.
Find me in your history of the space race,
alone in that gunmetal vessel.
Hardly human, I could as well
stand on two hind legs
for what I know in body
about sacrifice. Lab rat or martyr.
I know I am named in the thoughts
of men; in that critical creed of science,
my survival, neither expected
nor planned.

I am on my fourth orbit, scholar,
my dark, wet nose still holding
its moisture, even as my fur
finds fire—a torch. I am my own
little comet. Imagine no pain.
I write myself no hero
im my version of history.
There is no cruel hunger leaping off
the edge of my animal thoughts. I do not
drop my dead weight in stars.
I hold my blaze.

And I do not blame the men, scholar,
or their genius experiment. I do not
blame the fat hands that suit up
the martyr dog. Trust me,
I understand the science of it—animals
as models for what men
must hold caution, like a mirror, to.
Yes, I donned the genius apparel.
I sat in the vessel and posed
till the artists of the world
painted my possibility in the sky.

Why bat your heavy eyelids like a gavel, scholar?
You have no right to judge. Right now,
you read through history with your
own bloody finger.
Years ago, for a final year project,
a budding scientist, you sacrificed
a handful of flies; saved a few
for the study. Blood was data, and data
was sacred to science, you were taught.
How were you to know, little god,
which of the flies had had a hard life,
a torn wing at eclosion, or having
to see his mother die?

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