Chicano Poet

Saturday, June 02, 2012

Deep Space

She wears her space suit to bed.
Her pearl-handled ray gun at her side.

The stars
shoot at night.

Sixty moons
like fish in a barrel.

She dreams
she’s a child again.

Her uncle
taught her everything she knows about space.

The sidewalks
were made of oxygen.

Her first tricycle
was really three.

Her mother
was made entirely of alien skin.

She ran away from home
when she was seven.

She’s lived in outer space since then.
She wishes she was ten.

The rocket ship is warming up
next to the fireplace.

She smiles in her sleep
and becomes weightless.

Her electrons don’t know who they are.
Neither wave nor particle.

A black hole runs down her mother's leg
her father said.

When she wakes up
her space suit is all sweaty.


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