ROCKET SCIENCE
by Sherman Pearl

This poem is not rocket science
yet it, too, is trying to thrust itself our of orbit,
rise into the unknown. It will not,
however, rain missiles on unseen enemies;
nor was it fathered by transplanted Nazis.

Rocket science is what easy "ain't".
Art is infinitely more fragile; builds spaceships
out of spider webs. But it knows
how to mourn those lost in the ether;
it lets us witness their travels through time.

It is not rocket science
but it hitchhikes onto the scientists' rockets.
When they land on alien worlds
it unveils the beauty under the bleakness;
it transmits urgent reports from the dark side.

Art is the lonely capsule
that wanders through space after the rockets
have fallen away. It is the gasp
of astronauts who've glimpsed a magnficence
science can't name. It is that name.

SUNRISE SERVICES
by Sherman Pearl

Because I raise the shade halfway and quietly crow the liturgy of daybreak
the sun's first glow blesses our bedroom.

Because I hum pop tune psalms while soaping myself under holy waters
the sky is washed clean of its darkness.

Because I shave righteously, cutting nobody, smoothing my face into a baby's
there will be no war today, no ritual bloodshed.

Because I brew coffee in accordance with instructions from the original maker
the world smells a little more savory.

Because I remember the prayer for the dead while bending over your body
you open your eyes and rise like the sun.

Because I remember the prayer for the dead while bending over your body
you open your eyes and rise like the sun.

PANDEMIC
by Sherman Pearl

If we could name the illness we'd find a cure.
We'd invent a pill, give it a nickname
that numbs the ache with a lighthearted swallow.

After the swallow the lips would sweeten,
feel urges to kiss other lips without fear
of spreading anything but affection.

And affection would mutate into passion
and passion to love and love would become
the name of what's been going around.

What's going around is spread by the pall
falling on all the love-seekers.
It passes among the otherwise healthy

touching their hearts with the queasiness
that Adam the Name-Giver knew
as he sought a name

that might've cured him of the plague
of aloneness. Finding none
he tore part of himself out of himself

and called Woman. He kissed her
to calm his need but could find
no name for the malaise taking hold

of the two of them, the symptom
not even love could cure,
the longing that called them into the world.