Previously published in Bombay Gin 39.1
We are watching a speck move across the face of the moon. My father explains, That’s Michael Collins. If we had strong enough binoculars, you could see the other two still up there, bored and hungry. Been stuck there since sixty-nine; God knows what keeps them alive. He says, You can still hear them sometimes. He turns on the radio; it hisses static at us. Well, sometimes.
What do they say?
Not much.
We wait. The moon is moving across the sky. I push the binoculars closer until they hurt the ridge of my eyes. The radio stutters to life. They speak. They say, We are the moon men, fuck you!

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