A Magazine of Many Arts

Skip Sorn

She is a pioneer.

She cannot teleport
off-world.
She cannot communicate
off-world.

Transmission is blocked
by spectral coronal flares
by solar mass eruptions
by sudden incapacitating sorrow.

The planet is too near the star.
She should have known.
Now, she is isolated.
Alone.

She hides in Howe Caverns,
six million year-old caves that
plunge into blackness below
tourist level. She must not be found.

She’s keening-
her distress is telepathic
registering below consciousness
in human females within 500 kilometers.

It sets off an outbreak of ineffable
sadness, resistant to SSRIs. Psychiatrists
can’t fathom the widespread depression.
Women lie down, weeping without warning.

She too weeps without warning.
Her tears are warm syrup unlike
human dripping. Her hair is
foliage, green-yellow, now wilting.

Soon the darkness, the absence
of sunlight will kill her.
At her death, human females will not be
despondent, will rise up uncaring and
smile.