By Deron Eckert

The satellite in what was your yard

brings questions to me from afar.

Are you the one sending them

from wherever it is you are?

Or am I merely asking myself

if an object so large can signal

you out there in what I call

the great unknown and you

knew simply as heaven above?

I ask you to send a message below

when I visit your humble grave,

but the dish on which I used to play

could not be less than five miles away.

And that’s much too far to have

any hope of using it to shout out

to you in the unknown or above.

So, I brush the grass beneath

my feet and at yours with my hand

as if it were your hair, and I feel

not as if you are still near

but as though I can hear

you telling me to appreciate

the beauty in this world

the way you did before

you got sick and not to be afraid

like you were at the end

but curious like you were until

the end because you’ll meet me

up there and alleviate my fear

of the unknown, which you know

to be simple now after you learned

none of us have to go it alone.

Deron Eckert is a writer who lives in Lexington, Kentucky. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Door is a Jar, Ghost City Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Fahmidan Journal, and elsewhere. He is currently seeking publication for his Southern Gothic coming-of-age novel and his first collection of poetry.