My honey takes me to the cornfield in his red pickup

To show me the mirror peeking into Andromeda—

Her naked constellations,

Newborn planets

Suckling tenderly to her cosmic breast.

I wanted a creation of our own.

A celestial body that has my razor-sharp wit,

Words that cut men in half,

And the forgotten language he speaks with his eyes.

He tells me I’m the woman of his dreams

But his stars are shooting blanks—

And I fear I’ll yearn for something more than he can give.

If we together cannot spawn supernovas,

Then I will settle for going to the moon,

Sticking his flag in the soft soil of my shores.