four hours and forty-seven minutes

is a long time to focus on how fragile our world is,

as you descend to the bottom of the earth.

and when one outer window pane cracks… there is a lifetime

between knowing something is wrong, feeling the ship

shake, and realizing that moment isn’t when you die.

you’re already prepared for death, though,

since you’re set on making history. no matter how many

calculations are done or reassurances are made

or precautions are put in place, being the first person

to attempt something so dangerous means death

will always be a possibility. there are no survivors

to tell you how to do it right. you don’t know how

to imagine your death, if more of those windows

cracked. what would be the final cause–

the cold, the water, the pressure, something unexpected?

your body will be irretrievable. your loved ones

will have nothing to bury or burn. they are prepared

for this, too.

                     but then, nearly six-thousand feet later,

you reach the ocean floor. you stay long enough to realize

you can communicate with the surface again, even though

the seven-second delay means if something killed you here,

you’d be dead for a few heartbeats before the commanders knew.

which is better: them knowing for certain you died

because the comms were cut short, or them having to assume

when the ship doesn’t reemerge from the water? you make history

whether you live or die, because no one else has attempted this.

you’re just lucky you’re around to see it.

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