Coming soon to skies near you

the asteroid Apophis, whiskering past. 
Maybe I’ll be dead by then. 2029. Maybe 
I’ll ride it out past the sun to the apogee 
of that rock’s orbit. Zero chance hitting us,  
so they say. Yet we’re about to tinker with it. 

Messing with the demonic. Apophis, aka Apep,  
Egyptian god of chaos emanated umbilically 
veiny and outraged from the navel of Ra. 
Priests urge Ra, Assume cat-form. Clobber Apep! 

Spit upon him. 
Defile him with the left foot.  
Take up a lance and smite him. 
Fetter him. 
Take up a knife and smite him some more. 
Put fire upon him. 

For further instructions, consult 
The Book of the Overthrowing of Apep. 

Not so fast. (Rock-form Apophis makes the 
Kessel Run in under twelve parsecs.)  
Justice once shattered, out of its leaking innards  
slithers doom.  

Apophis, zipping by in the dregs of the decade. 

JANE M. WISEMAN

Jane M. Wiseman is a poet who splits her time between very urban Minneapolis and the Sandia Mountains of New Mexico. She enjoys all kinds of poetry and writes in other forms, too. She is an enthusiastic Sunday painter and loves spending time with family.