mothership

i get the galactic gender & burn a hole
through all the grief. once, in high school,
my boyfriend & me opened the fire pit 
in his yard & lit all of the calendars we could find.
each day turned into a tiny halo. he burned 
axe spray cans which popped like gun shots
& i burned a stuffed animal my ex had given me.
its fur smelled like fry oil & muddy dark.
up in the clouds the mothership saw us.
it scanned our bodies for usefulness & ultimately
decided to keep hula-hooping the earth. i saw it
just for a moment. a great eye blinking behind
the stars. iris as dark as eggplant skin. 
when everyone else was asleep i tried to catch up.
i walked out of town & to the parking lot
of the walmart where we would sometimes 
go to kiss. a man stood there in the street lamp glow
doing the same as me, looking up with hunger.
there are so many ways to be stolen 
in this country. maybe i dream of this one
because at least i would have some control. 
swallowed into the belly of the first gender. her hum
& her luminous face. i dream of a gender
that feeds me instead of one that takes. i do not
want to be sturdy or perennial. i want to get 
orchid in the moon breath night. i want to see
him again & ask him if what is burned is really gone.
the last time i saw him there was a bone fire 
at the back of his throat. i reached for it
but he pushed me away. i kept growing more eyes
than i could manage. the ship passes over sometimes,
still looking for someone i am not. 
once though i saw it pluck a cow from the dairy farm
behind my parents house. i was visiting for 
the  winter holidays. veiled in blue & emerald
she left the earth. i think she must be 
so happy up there. weightless in a room of singing.