not on another's metal wings.
She wants to be more like
Icarus, but without any
melting, without the crash. Why
is it witches, the only
women to escape the tug
of earth, aren't as respected as
a boy with wings she wonders.
Isn't flying on a simple broom
as much a feat? Sure, she sighs,
women have been taken out of
the ordinary occasionally by a
penis though not as often as their
owners think. And yes, they've
made it into rockets but she wants more.
She wants her own penis rocket.
Not inside her, but growing from her,
a flesh machine she can explore and
invade and ride up and probe the
blue, plunge past stars, hurtle and
pulse thru the fragile shell of
the biosphere like a hymen that's
protecting everything dear.
She wants to be that penis
that takes her where she can
float through space, wrap in a
piece of it's skin,
a cocoon to move thru what there
are no text books for, like
someone with a virgin, carefully,
taking it easy, not moving too
quickly in a stillness where she'll
hear her heart beating, blood pushing,
rustle of muscles in a black sky
wild with stars, flooded with sunlight
and later, a darkness so intense
nothing dark, later, could hit
her as it had.
