Sherine Gilmour

Mars and Venus

At the breakfast table, my son
says, “I don’t want to live on Earth.”
I know this feeling, like a cave
that drips in my stomach. 
“Is Mercury habitable?” “No,” I answer.
“Mars?” A library book lays open 
beside his cereal bowl. A large red planet swirls 
in the dark. Venus has acid rain.
The planet known for the goddess of love
would sizzle our skin, kill us in minutes.
A surface that reaches deathly degrees.
“When will scientists find another place 
that is habitable?” When he is done 
with breakfast, I help him brush his teeth. 
Put on mittens, zip his coat. We hold 
hands and walk up the hill to the bus stop. 
I tell him, “I hope they do find someplace.” 
“They will,” he demands. “Right away. 
I don’t want to live here anymore. The Earth 
is a bad place.” He wants and wants.
His heart is full of wanting. To feel safe.
To go on living. Isn’t this
what we all want? Another day
in kindergarten. He is up the stairs
on the bus. I walk the dog in a circle
around our neighborhood, an orbit
too tiny to make a difference.