How many costumed women does it take to push
a turn-of-the-century space capsule into a launcher?
When no one knows what’s beyond the breathable,
it’s easy to imagine how a few well-dressed men
could hammer rivets to a rocket and make it fly.
It looks like they’re inserting a giant tampon
into a giant pea gun and shooting it to the atmosphere.
Goodbye! wave the women to the men stuffed inside,
hurtling to the moon with the strike of a match. See how
that feels! The moon has a face you could punch
the eye of. The moon will take it. It will bleed.
In the noiseless unknown, stars synchronize
their illumination. Legs fold delicately
from their five-pointed faces. All feminine light.
When the ill-equipped astronauts pull a string,
the capsule releases from the moon’s soft surface
and falls back to Earth. No burn on re-entry.
It sinks to the ocean floor, where undiscovered
creatures circle the abandoned vessel,
and far above, confetti showers the men
who were brave enough to leave the known world
and brave enough to return, while majorettes
lead a marching band in silent parade.