“NASA is researching risks for Mars missions which are grouped into five human
spaceflight hazards related to the stressors they place on the body. These can be summarized with
the acronym “RIDGE,” short for Space Radiation, Isolation and Confinement, Distance from
Earth, Gravity fields, and Hostile/Closed Environments.”

Space Radiation
My husband keeps telling me that opening the microwave door before the buzzer sounds will kill
me, I’m already in the basement, radon detectors, twice yearly monitoring, do we remediate,
track bluelight, research glasses, limit screen time, hold my breath before our eyes are scanned,
orange pulsing orb of unclouded vision, the healthy vein. Brick will cause cancer. Plane flights
will cause cancer; the Teflon pan, the TV dinner. Maybe our water is too high in fluoride. Maybe
iron. I’m pretty sure everyone is lying about having the bomb. And I know, for certain, that
whatever anger already has is more than enough.

Isolation and Confinement
No one gave me a psych exam before I moved to Maine. Does the snowpack in front of the door
make you feel cozy or confined? Have you ever screamed into the cold and watched your words
freeze? Do you stop when the sun blinds the snow and just let it all wash over you, every particle
of hoarded light? Do you make tunnel? Labyrinth? Shelter? My children practice self defense,
hurling snowballs at imaginary enemies, crafting escape routes on sleds faster than migration,
they outrace me.

Distance from Earth
Enchantment is easy: our wood stove, shadow contrast of icing pine. The way color floods each
sunset until everywhere rainbows, streaks of salmon crimson so beautiful you never think storm.
It’s only locals up here. We pay for each other’s groceries, fuel oil, pass the peace. Cars drive
slowly up my icy hill, passing us walking, everyone waves.

Gravity Fields
Israel and Palestine. Russia and Ukraine. Iran. China. My daughter reads about vortices and I
think war must be the opposite, life unspiraling never to return. Remember when one body
moving toward another was something beautiful? A law of attraction? In the tent cities we are
passing out blankets. Someone always says get help. Someone always says, take this hand. But
compassion is never enough. The wind blows. The bench empties itself. Another body picks up
its frail shadow and moves on.

Hostile/Closed Environments
I want to say that running is resistance, but I’m not sure. I look at my hands sometimes, bit nails,
wrinkled knuckles, slippery rings, stout fingers like treestumps, you can count these years,
loveline’s luxurious gash. Trees write history, dry times, drought rings, condensing themselves,
the forest itself a boundary, fat again with flood. Can I say peace on earth if I know I’m always
lying? Or just settle for Candlemas, sky of gentle shadow, groundhog slipping back inside its
burrow, paws already folded in prayer, an early spring.