“Apollo 10: The Dark Side Tapes” is one of three cosmically creepy poems by E.B. Schnepp in our Winter 2018 issue.

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THIS ISN’T A SONG THAT LEAVES YOU, it’s a virus
entering ears only to settle in your bones, Houston,

it rings there, this black hole cry—we’ll hear it
long after we’re planted back on earth. Houston,

at night it will leave you pacing dark halls waiting
for whatever is calling to find you. Houston,

the captain said it was a song, slow pitched rock-n-roll,
but we both know it was a scream. Houston,

it’s unlike anything heard before—but
we can’t tell you this, you can’t hear us, Houston

we’re orbiting other-sides of space, we’re unsure
we’ll ever hear something human again. Houston,

we’re crying for you, deliver us
from this dark, deliver us, Houston

from this radio silence, its static
pop and wheeze. Houston—

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E.B. SCHNEPP is a poet hailing from rural Mid-Michigan who currently finds herself stranded in the flatlands of Ohio. Her work can also be found in Hypertrophic Lit, Maudlin House, and Crab Fat, among others.