In the kick-my-teeth talk between space and gravity, my brain undulates against the rhythmic kick of Jupiter’s spin tossing about orbiting oceans by the girth of her magnetic field where I read The Inferno within her Great Red Spot when your voice calls me home calls me home to a Europan hitchhiker staring back at me with green binocular eyes as he swallows beef stew at our helium-based supper. I am native to this gas goliath named for the Roman god of thunder and sky. Who are you? to sit on the wood of my grandfather’s chair. The man immigrated from his ice-moon birth to the dense core of the solar system’s closed fist. The foreigner rips out his eyeballs, plops them next to our whale-fat candle burning, opens the screen door onto an atmospheric chainsaw.