Prompt poem (three)

(The prompt for this one: Remember your voice.)

Here in space,
nobody can hear you do much of anything.

Scream, certainly --
which is what you do the first few days.
Or weep, or moan, or curse your fate,
ringing the full changes on profanity
in several half-remembered languages.

Finally, you get used to the quiet.
You start hearing the subtle difference
between the radiant hush of the stars
and the muteness of your drifting body.

At last you find peace. Or perhaps
a simple acquiescence.
You stopped screaming long ago.

You turn like the moon,
facing sun, then shadow,
then sun again.

Your gloved fingers eclipse the Earth,
silhouetted on vacant blue.

You close your eyes and drift through silence.

Here in space, nobody can hear you pray.