martian 

like a rusted trestle or martian
earth i amble along the crease of
your scarred flesh-- 

the knife's careful work a kind
of geography

i stand in the mirror.
use a felt-tip pen to mark the lines 
where a surgeon will cut beneath 
each breast.

on nights like this i assume
we should be able to see mars

dislodged from a throne &
wanderlust between stars

iron oxide flesh--
the rusted bridge where the 
train used to pass over
the quarry

the god of war will work his 
blood in us

pray for steady hands
& for astronaut footprint 
in the red earth 

i've been searching google images 
of breast augmentation surgeries

a facebook group called 
"Top-surgery FTM/ Non binary"
lets me in & i sit & watch 
our bodies unfold into
one another

plural like the terrestrial 
mars who cannot hold onto water

there are inter-planetary 
reactions made across 
laptop screens

"mutilated"  is a word
my mother will probably use

the scar lines are 
purse lips

closed eyelids

i'm still looking for mars 
up there

like an earring dropped
onto the carpet

this time tracing myself 
fingers across skin 

i'm asking for a scarred body 
out of love for celestial ones

oh if i could use all our
scars like highways i could
walk mars bound & alien 

no one would ask me about 
what i do with my skin

why i do with my skin

what color is the ground
beneath you?

when they ask about my scars
i don't want to hesitate to tell
the truth but we will probably 
end up out here 

with low gravity & 
fourth planet abandonment

almost sustaining life 

but not quite

a jealous body
footprint bruised & aching with
the rovers tracks

they're trying to dig life
out of the craters &
valleys

like i try to unearth something
in a body