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  • Danielle Weeks

Exoplanet Taxi

At the end of a year, a woman in a black car

takes me away. The radio plays its static-patched songs

while she asks me where I’m going, not

where I want to go. There is a right answer,

a wrong one.

I might give her an address

that is an equation, the numbers of my name

added in a circle. I might ask how much I’d owe

for 235 trillion miles’ travel, a one-way trip

to one of those seven rocky planets

rendered artistically on the news,

a best guess.

Take me to a tidally-locked face,

some body steady and choiceless. Take me

to a place where a version of me

is the unknown weather crossing

from night to day. Outside the car window,

the snow warms to rain and becomes

sun on the road.

I don’t know the right answer.

The rearview mirror shows the back

of the driver’s head. I try to see her face,

which could be dead as the moon,

which could be a mirror, which could be

a terrible light

bending into water. No matter

which way I look, she is still turning away.

The static shushes the same verses

over and over.

Danielle Weeks received her MFA in poetry through Eastern Washington University's creative writing program, where she also served as the poetry editor for Willow Springs. Her work has been published in Cobalt Review, Hayden's Ferry Review, and Nashville Review, among others.

Image courtesy of Kevin Dooley

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