There are shards of sky glass on my bare shoulder.
Alarms of imminent decompression
blaring in my ears. Dominoes falling
One then two then three—taking down empires.

The molten hull of our ship raining down
to the surface is safer than signing
any treaty our diplomats carry.
Safe for souls on the planet at least.

Don’t call me a martyr; my sins outweigh
delaying the domination of one
pristine planet, an Eden ignorant
of the corruption our handshakes promise.

Here I stand, planted between these people
and their loss of agency, naked and
covered in righteousness, the glitter of
my own broken ship decorating me.

It’s one ship, but let these sparks fly lightyears
to stoke embers of revolution throughout
this so-called heaven. May the scales held
by Justice’s hand tip an inch toward mercy.

—Jordan Hirsch