by Megan Pinto

At home, we keep my father from the news.
The news addles his mind. Our doctor says
she tells all her patients to turn off
their screens, to consider knitting or meditation
instead. She has experienced the mind’s slow
pull toward oblivion.

My father fears economic collapse.
He would feel more comfortable if I
would only withdraw $200,000
in cash—just to have on hand.
I thought the end would need more
bright angels in chariots, a sudden bloom
of locust in the tap water,
but no. The light each morning
is the same. When I sleep, I sleep fitfully
each hour opening an eye to check
for the sun’s slow rise
over the neighbor's lawn.

Alone, I resume a documentary
about space. There is an urgent search
for another planet just like Earth.
It’s very possible, scientists say.
A PhD in Hawaii demonstrates centrifugal force
with her fire fan. On the International
Space Station, Astronauts see sixteen
sunsets and sunrises in one
human day. Imagine the abundance.
You could begin again.

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Megan Pinto's poems can be found or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, Lit Hub, Plume, and elsewhere. She has received scholarships and fellowships from Bread Loaf, Martha's Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing, the Port Townsend Writers' Conference, and an Amy Award from Poets & Writers. Megan holds an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson.