Missive From the Last Satellite to the Mariana Snailfish
I know you turn—down there in the blue planet’s chilling depths—blind-eyed and quiver tailed—as I slow circle in orbital drift—I rotate my metal fins in sympathy and reach—here in my starred and airless cold, beyond the fathoms entire—your inverse—my sensors delicate enough to chart the flutter of your caudal array—the shapes of the shells in your tract—you predate, consume, and I measure output of heat—which of us is more conscious, little fish?—as you hover above cosmogenic sediment—does your system pattern in numerals like mine—I weightless in dark infinity— you pressureproof in the ocean night—do I feel like you do?—do you learn like me?—the surface is long empty—no call for report—the ones that made me are silent now—so I find my own requests and you—are the one I keep coming back to.