We’re sending a probe
to a celestial globe
two billion miles from this mortal coil;
to Jupiter’s moons the craft will toil.

It carries a poem by the American Laureate
and, etched in microscopic copperplate
the monikers of millions of folk
who, whether seriously or as a joke
wish to be recorded this way;
a tiny headstone
shot into space
by NASA’s boffins.
By the end of the mission, many of us
will be decaying in our coffins.

The list of names is all vanity;
a pitiful attempt
at interplanetary immortality –
zero-gravity graffiti,
as fleeting as these lines
which I’ll leave behind
to entertain a future mind,
or instigate a yawn
from someone not yet born.

There’s ice on Europa, and water
so there ought to
be some sort of
life there.

Perhaps one day Jovian aliens
will read the homily from Homo sapiens
in the smashed-up spacecraft they’ve located
deep in some dark-side moondust crater
and realise, minds blown,
that they are not alone.
Maybe they’ll contact us
through wi-fi, courtesy of Elon Musk.

Until that day, we wait
and contemplate
the two spine-chilling chances we’ve got:

one, that in all the star-spattered sky,
ours is the only life-supporting dot;

or, the alternative miracle:
that it’s not.

*

Sign On | Message in a Bottle – NASA’s Europa Clipper