how, if things went bad, if there was a moon disaster and the astronauts couldn’t come back, they’d call the widows-to-be before reading the statement to the nation. Then NASA would cut off communication with the stranded astronauts, and the clergyman would adopt the same procedure as a burial at sea. I think of you, baby, telling me how you pulled the plug on your phone talking to a woman who thought she was yours, a warning I should have listened to before I was in a cold place, like where those astronauts might have been, with no hope left of getting back to where I’d started, stuck, abandoned, with- out anything like those suicide capsules someone says they carried with them. When you said you’d call back and didn’t, I could have been getting that phone call, not so different from the one I got months later cutting all connection: “It’s not you, it’s me.” And then, “It’s over.”