The Astronauts Are Out of Milk
I can’t stand you, so I have to be honest. It’s time to replace that star you’ve been wishing on.
It’s done you no good. It’ll do you no good. You’re praying to something that might already
be gone -- a glimpse of hot gas that once was. You should wish on a rock, even if it might
crumble. Haven’t you been held? Haven’t you been thrown into the water? You’re not too
good to trip someone up. Forget the bodies of stars with no mouths to drink. Build a
foundation in the pit of your gut. I might just be there waiting for you. We could climb your
throat to gaze at all the teeth — those yellow-white bricks lined with spit. It’s a perfectly
good view for you. But then again, that’s just how I feel. I’m no scientist or whatever.
Published in Ethel Zine
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