Every globe warms, except
those that cool. Traveling
at the speed of light, I see
the evolution of planets
over millennia, local time:
mood rings for whole
populations. Yours shows
angering. I had one once—
a mood ring (also a planet)—
but it stayed blue because
my people have cold hands.
That means we have warm
hearts, except that we don’t.
When Earth finally passes
fully to fretful violet,
I bet it will explode.
Happens to other planets,
why not yours? Could be
what happened to mine,
or it could still be out there
turning color so I don’t
recognize it. But my planet’s
more likely to freeze, shatter
like a dropped chandelier—
for hundreds of years its dust
rising into the space around it.
This poem first appeared in Space Traveler (University of Tampa, 2014).
—
Benjamin S. Grossberg’s books of poetry include My Husband Would (University of Tampa, 2020), winner of the 2021 Connecticut Book Award, and Sweet Core Orchard (University of Tampa, 2009), winner of a Lambda Literary Award. He also wrote the novel, The Spring before Obergefell (University of Nebraska, 2024), which was selected by Percival Everett for the 2023 AWP Award Series James Alan McPherson Prize. Ben is Director of Creative Writing at the University of Hartford.
