Space shape: my suitable suit of flight: a cloud

of dust with wisps of gravity brushing

fingertips like almost-lovers who can’t

decide if touching is worth the risk of becoming

something new

I became something new once

or twice—though always a woman with too many

facial expressions and a preference

for red lipstick and tall boots on my short legs

Once: I was so at home in my space shape that

reality tore holes in itself to stand next to me

and unravel. Twice: I, fragments, I, sharp threads

through femoral artery—don’t unstitch reality

or I’ll bleed out. What volume of blood develops

its own gravity? What propels us towards a red ribbon

of rage?

Which version of me found ugliness in asymmetry? When did I

look into the peculiarity of a space shape and realize that

resistance is a quality of atmosphere?

I am not bound to the petty clutch of air and earth;

this body does not hold me inside physics

In my own shape, blocks and curves achieve

motion in a vacuum: an illusion of repurposed pigment

But look again; I created this container of cosmology,

painted the hull liminal yellow. In the engine room,

whole hearts are shovelled into the propulsion system.

In the corner, an unearthly creature pulls

fresh-grown hearts from its knees

and adds them to the pile.