March 2020
We stretch our arms—to transfer my spare key —
an almost fathom, though we remain above sea level. To launch nuclear
strikes from a submarine, two people must turn keys in panels distanced
beyond armspan—a measure intended to diminish accidental transmission;
since armspan equals roughly height, six feet is the minimum. A fathom,
from the Old English for embrace, but to say goodbye we reach
both arms out, like wings mirroring wings. There isn’t a protocol yet
because exact risk can’t be fathomed. The distanced keys weave
mutual cooperation into acts of immeasurable consequence. How far
droplets can travel is still undetermined. About leash length, I think
to myself, or two grocery carts, as the signs say, or my brother prone
on the ground. A hand shorter, I attempt to fathom: launch orders
must be checked against a code, confirmed to match
before the keys are turned. Our lungs convey unknown after
unknown, but my friend is a not a risk-
taker. We concur. Under shallow breath, our hands guess
half a fathom between us.
Ceridwen Hall is a poet and educator from Ohio. She is the author of a chapbook, Automotive (Finishing Line Press). Her work has appeared in Spoon River Poetry Review, TriQuarterly, Pembroke Magazine, Tar River Poetry, The Cincinnati Review, and other journals. You can find her at www.ceridwenhall.com.