Space Struck

by Paige Lewis

This sort of looking has turned me boring—even the sun’s been sighing, Not you again, when it sees me.

Fox News buys exclusive broadcasting rights. My mother is sobbing, pressing her nails into my palm. She asks, Is this live, is this live?

My beloved says he could walk over glass too— It’s all about weight displacement. He ruins every illusion by staring at his own hands.

Lately, I’ve been feeling betrayed by names:

Now, with my planetary hopes dashed, I’m revising my lecture on futile repetition.

I’m a miserable excuse for a weapon.

Yes, we fall in love, but our love isn’t golden so much as it is Midas lite

When Saint Francis materialized in the corner of my studio apartment, I figured I was in for a quick message from the Almighty—Thou shalt lose weight, or Thou shalt not lie with thine physics professor

We know nothing about your bodies, but we want to teach you ours. We aren’t weak. Our skeletons are built to stand even when certain parts break or go missing.

I stay inside, line my bed with spider plants and succulents, christen it Chapel of the Green Lord,

where are you going this world is already willing to give you anything

I want them to know how great I’m doing with my adventures in independence. I’m ready to shout, Look at my healthy new life!

if Adam had the power to name everything, everything would be named Adam.

Now, I demand a love that is stupid and beautiful, like a pilot turning off her engines midflight to listen for rain on wings.

My weaknesses are many and stubborn.