Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

This poem appears in The Love of a Good Man and Holes: An Anthology of Poems about Depths, Dark­ness, and De­sire.

Cappelbaum's lived on this station in space
for fifteen thousand, three hundred, and eighty-one days.

For this creature—
which they once had called kosmonávt—
         there can be no mysterious ways.


By now, he has watched the moon pass her hatch
five hundred and twenty-one times (give or take).

She has marked their every encounter;
he can thus rest assured—
         there can be no mistake.


Cappelbaum is by now quite familiar with each square metre
of her small floating home—to be quite exact, fifty-six point two.

         In the morning, he checks on her plants.
         In the evening, he does a small dance,
                   then regards the faded red flag,
                   and sits to her stew.


He doesn't quite know why they never came to get her;
as a matter of fact, he's received neither message nor letter

         in years; she might just guess that the Party at last lost
         interest in space, a decade or two ago (more or less).
                   Sending up comrades can be such a pain;
                   better focus on grain.


He's been focusing lately on:

                                         sewing,
                                         tinkering,
                                         writing, and
                                         painting.

'Natch, all the way up here,                      you can't just "make it new";

                                         it must all be
                                         recycled,
                                         reduced, and
                                         reused.


Cappelbaum often turns up her frown, whenever he proudly recalls spare
spacesuits she'd shaped into gowns, worthy of the most graceful balls.

         He's filled with sheer joy when she finds yet again
         a rent in a hydrostatic tent from a mouse.
                                         Shall it be a skirt or a blouse?

Cappelbaum's tiny space closet—formerly filled with greys, khakis, olives—
by her reckoning more dresses than dress shirts now's got.

         So many red ties have become straps and belts.
         So many stripes and paisley spermatozoans saved from rot…
                                         Shit. An alarm blares from a lower deck.


In his red coveralls (festooned for many hours with small, yellow flowers),
Cappelbaum takes a big, red toolbox and heads down to inspect the issue.

         There, right by the lights, buttons, and dials for data transfers
         and comms, she sees a small hole.
                                         Hm. Don't remember that being here before.


Now, out of his jumpsuit's side pocket, Cappelbaum takes a shop tissue,
places upon it some WD-40, gently wipes the rim of the opening.

         The entire space station shudders briefly. For a split second,
         haywire lights flicker; she thinks he can hear—unh, perhaps ahh—
                                         something sighting softly and sweetly.


This isn't the first time Cappelbaum's wondered about
voices in plumbing. But, hey, she's got nothing but time

for this problem, and—
if nobody's coming to help—
         might as well work out the trouble.


He decides to put on her work gloves (to be safe) and then,
with much control, puts a curious finger into the hole.

For the moment,
he disregards—the sounds,
         the shaking, the lights—


At present, Cappelbaum knows only that there is a puzzle
in need of solving. As with all machinery that makes fluid motions,

         she thinks, more lubrication—here, there a squirt—
         is always just right for kinetic commotion; it can't ever hurt.
                   But, before he knows it, she begins
                   each time to linger a little longer.


The lights aren't anymore flashing wildly and the sighs from the station
seem now much more rhythmic, quieter, calmer.

         With each thrust, he again adds more grease, thinks
         Even if it is a mystery, there's no need to cause pain…
                   Hm. It does now seem quite wide. And, before
                   she knows it, he's got two fingers inside.


With newfound abandon,
she tries every utencil:

                                               old toothbrush,
                                               lint roller handle,
                                               small bottle,
                                               pencil,

'Natch, all the way up there,
the hole accepts all. It does not                                judge, or care; but,

                                               it all must be put in
                                               carefully,
                                               longingly,
                                               lovingly.


Following a frenzied shock, Cappelbaum, back in his tinker's
workshop, fashions with knowing hands measures for pleasure.

         Just you watch: Here, she'll leave the top smooth; there,
         he'll place a notch—here a ridge, there a groove.
                                               (The Party, she thinks, likely wouldn't approve.)


But that doesn't matter. Cappelbaum's big, red toolbox—formerly filled
with things with which to turn screws, hammers, pliers—

         by his reckoning now must be packed tight with unearthly delights:
         vividly vibrant, viridian hand-blown glass cucumbers and,
                                               vehemently vigorous, violet wands of violent might.


Now out of her pretty, flowery coveralls, Cappelbaum collects his gifts
and heads back to the hole. She can't quite yet tell, but he senses

         that something now changes, something shifts. It waits for her,
         the hole, and patiently anticipates his touch. She knows but one thing:
                                               He loves the hole and her hole, it loves him.


(It's all night and day compared to what that decadent, weird book
by Burroughs had to say.) Though furthest from a poet, Cappelbaum

         wonders, What anthem might one compose to praise the hole, the song
         heard proudly and as far as Mars? When, suddenly—ahh! then unh!—
                                               "By Lenin's beard! It's full of stars!"