Space Struck

by Paige Lewis

I’m the vice president of panic, and the president is missing.

And I’m sure there’s an alternate universe where my gaze is unwavering, where I’m paid to name the newest nail polish colors—Fiddlehead Green, Feral Red, Geothermal Glitter—where I don’t hate documentarians for letting nature be its gruesome self. But I’m stuck in this one,

Tell me, how do I steady my gaze when everything I want is motion?

I move through life like I’m trying to avoid a stranger’s vacation photo.

Lately, I’ve been feeling betrayed by names: the king cobra isn’t a cobra, the electric eel isn’t an eel, and it turns out my anger was fear all along.

because hard work is defined by a body’s wreckage, and I want you to know I’m hard at work

I wonder if we name storms because naming is the only power we’re left with.