Titan

When I was a kid,

there were only 10 or

11 moons—

orbiting my

favourite planet.

Now there’s two-hundred &

seventy-four.

Somehow it’s less

romantic.

I’d rather circle

Saturn than our star.

You assume it’s

for the rings. Everyone

loves the rings. I counter

basketball—the Wilson

frozen halfway through

the rim, allowing me to

savour the final bucket

that wins the game.

But in case you

don’t believe me, I’ll say it’s

the way the 8-ball slowly

sinks in the centre pocket—

the agony of your victory;

the thrill of my defeat.

Both of these are

lies, of course.

I’m simply misanthropic.

Prefer to gasp on Titan

than inhale our toxic stew.

Soup, you say between

your slurps of minestrone—

as though it makes a difference.

As if Nonna’s furtive recipe

could possibly keep me here.

The balm within

the oven—her bread that bloats

like a Tilly—

light enough to hoist

me over Earth,

utterly trouncing Verne

& his silly balloon,

weaving me through the

belt of asteroids,

lest I possibly

change my mind,

her loaf to lap the drops

I’ve clumsily spilt

beyond the bowl,

like a boy still in a bib,

thinking he can one

day flee the sight of

a lonesome moon, the bland &

bandless sky through

which it circles, half its

blemished visage

turned away.  

Andreas Gripp

March 8, 2026

NASA