Ham’s Orbit
by Hamit Özonur
I remember silence,
not the kind between gunshots
but the silence that hums when the Earth forgets your name.
They strapped me in with blue-gloved hands.
One said, “he smiled”
I was baring my teeth.
In orbit,
the Earth was a garden:
a breath, a curl, a marble of forgiven things.
Even war looked like spilled ink from up there.
My heart ticked in the wires.
They fed me levers,
flashed lights like lightning in a box,
rewarded my obedience with banana paste
and clapped as I mimicked their gods.
Do you know what it’s like
to be trained to press a button
instead of reaching for your mother's face?
They called me a pioneer,
but I was never invited to the parade.
Down here, the gravity is heavier.
Men slice the forests like bread.
Cattle drown in blood.
Children look at cages and think
That’s where the wild things go.
They put me in a cage after.
The plaque said:
“First chimpanzee in space.”
No one asked if I missed the stars.
I did.
They were quiet.
And they didn’t pull my fur.
Some nights, I dream
of pressing the wrong button.
A mistake.
A rebellion.
A way to stay up there,
where Earth was just
a beautiful lie
I could still believe in.
Hamit Özonur
Hamit Özonur is a Turkish poet, writer, and educator based in Porto, Portugal. A former film producer, he draws on his background in mathematics, astrophysics, and cinema to create poetry that merges surreal imagery with speculative and philosophical themes. His work often explores memory, freedom, and ecological futures, blending emotional resonance with experimental form. Published in Turkey, he is now bringing his poetry to English-language audiences. Influenced by the İkinci Yeni movement, he seeks to explore the intersections of science, art, and human experience through layered, imaginative verse.