Postmonkey

As the ship speeds up at Pluto, the earthlight sensors blow.

Lights fade to pastel touches on your toffee-colored fur.

The flight recorder picks up your first words three years in:

a garble of  Merriam-Webster, harsh against the hum.

It’s not long before a halo’d planet sets off some chimpy whinge

about a green place and your females smoking red in spring.

When you give up hope, the language program hits its stride:

more dopamine, more titbits, an electrode’s neat incentive.

In the slow lane, a terrace of dying suns, you learn to really talk.

This one is your lab tech’s voice; you’re asking about stars.

Decades in the leatherette pod the psychs designed for you

turn your muzzle silver, and the low-grav wrecks your bones.

Your tail must be bald as a bike chain, the way you grumble.

I transcribed your words on landing, the part with the needle,

where you’re yelling you’re not ready, won’t be rushed.

The cargo hold opens and you’re wiped, then flushed.