If only I could fly over the moon without losing my balance.

To earthlings I am just a space cow;

Clumsy & clunky as I fall head over hooves in love with the first farmboy to milk my dignity dry.

So I set my pride aside

And let him have his way—

Cut my tongue out,

Fill my head with idyllic visions of domestic bliss.

I’ll churn butter for his toast every morning

And pick fresh berries for the jam.

Interrupting his first sip of coffee, black, to show him the love poem I wrote for him last night.

He knows nothing of the craft—

That a little piece of my soul lives and dies with the ink.