The Airlock Herm

At the outer hatch,
where every map says stop,
the crew bolted a small herm:
a head above a square stone.

Mara touches its bronze brow
before the lander drops
into the moon's long dark,
carrying food and two spare lungs.

“Messenger,” she says,
not loud enough for the radio.
The ship records only static
and the hinge cooling in its frame.

They wait through twelve dark minutes.
The lander wakes its beacon;
one green point crosses the scope.
Mara plots the returned coordinates.

At the inner door she removes
her glove, still warm inside.
The map has one new line home.
She takes the glove back to the herm.